More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. “Come upstairs,” she said, “and I will show you your room. Before retracing his steps, however, he allowed his gaze to range over the vast and beautiful prospect spread out beneath him, which is now hidden, from the traveller's view by the high walls of the General Cemetery, and can, consequently, only be commanded from the interior of that attractive place of burial,—and which, before it was intersected by canals and railroads, and portioned out into hippodromes, was exquisite indeed. You lie about your past all the time and you know it. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her.
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