See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. 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 understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe.
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