” They passed a man who stared at them curiously. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. 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. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. She could not part with dignity. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey. Love-making at first hand is dull enough.
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