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. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. “If I do,” he said.
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