It
was just twelve when Lucia and I arrived. The sun was at its
hottest, and the crowds within the rooms at their thickest. The air
seemed lifeless and laden with dust, swept up by the women's
dresses, and filled with a mixture of scents from White Rose to Eau
de Cologne. The daylight was harshly bright, and the unbroken lines
of pictures in their glaring gilt frames, annoyed and jarred upon
the eye.
We moved very slowly with the rank of people passing down our side
of the gallery. Lucia never removed her eyes from the walls, except
to glance at me and make me refer to a name in the catalogue, and
the women who passed her were able to scrutinise her dress and face
without a return glance. This they did to the utmost limits of good
breeding, for both were sufficiently worthy of notice.
Whether Lucia looked pretty or plain, at her best or her worst, she
always looked more or less striking. Some women are like this; they
can appear everything but quiet and common-place. Lucia would be
noticed everywhere, sometimes favourably, sometimes the reverse; but
noticed she must infallibly be. An exceptionally beautiful figure, a
certain extravagance in dress, and an unusually fair skin made her
conspicuous where far more regular faces and straight profiles
passed unnoticed. She herself was absolutely indifferent to
everything save the paintings.
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