It was locked. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. 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. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. No; I’m going to stick to the rules.
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