He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. It makes me desire life beyond measure. A sudden knock at the door startled her. "Dear me!" she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, "what a beautiful ring that is. I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by.
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