I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. 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. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. Ruth Enschede, Hartford, Conn.
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