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. So, instead, they talked of dancing and what it might mean in a human life. Lucy did not want to have to kill the mother, as she hated more than anything to kill women, no matter what their sins. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. And, setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat.
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