Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. In spite of the tumultuous joy which agitated him, the bridegroom could not prevent the intrusion of some saddening thoughts, as he reflected upon the melancholy scene which he had so recently witnessed in the same place. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. "Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman. “What do you want to go out here for, Lucy?” He 217 asked. Don’t ask me how. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. Lucia confined herself to her quarters, wondering when they would flee to the country as so many other houses had done. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy.
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