“It was perhaps my fault. 32 The curtains and tapestries had appeared over the windows before Marina had died, growing moldy from the dampness and the oils of lavender, clove, and clary sage soaking them. 256 Lucy chose her words carefully. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. That’s really our choice now, defy—or futility. Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. "You cannot understand me, Madam; and it is well you cannot. But about the unknown Englishman she was not so satisfied. It could not be she who had done this. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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