“It has all been a mistake, hasn’t it?” “No more talking,” the doctor interposed. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. 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. That night in his den he smoked many pipes.
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