Emerson,
please."
Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:
"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."
His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had
done her work.
Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want
not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."
Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.
"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."
In the morning they left for Rome.
Part Two
Chapter VIII: Medieval
The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to
meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection
from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to
the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued
and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life
like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the
curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides
of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the
glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.
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