“What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. I am not sure, but I believe that he has just thought of something. There was a girlfriend who was mentally ill. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. ‘My papa he does not wish me to marry the man I choose, and thus he places me in the convent that the nuns may lock me up and I cannot escape. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Capes most trying.
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