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She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Folks don’t like ’em. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. So go up-stairs and get your things together while I look out for a hansom. If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’ ‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly. . The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as suddenly extinguished.
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