The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. 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. To fight inertia on the one hand and to study this queer girl on the other. .
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