His name was Sebastianus. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. The reply he received this time put him into a state of continuous bewilderment. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached.
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