Her confession was still unmade. "Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She still kicked herself for 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. It was his heart. . He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. He rather liked the "sir"; it signified both gratefulness and the chastened spirit. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide.
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