Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. ” “We will go together,” she answered. ‘It is of no use to try to stop me. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight.
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