{"product_id":"2940013750616","title":"Lucia in London","description":"Considering that Philip Lucas's aunt who died early in April was no\u003cbr\u003eless than eighty-three years old, and had spent the last seven of\u003cbr\u003ethem bedridden in a private lunatic asylum, it had been generally\u003cbr\u003eand perhaps reasonably hoped among his friends and those of his\u003cbr\u003ewife that the bereavement would not be regarded by either of them\u003cbr\u003eas an intolerable tragedy.  Mrs. Quantock, in fact, who, like\u003cbr\u003eeverybody else at Riseholme, had sent a neat little note of\u003cbr\u003econdolence to Mrs. Lucas, had, without using the actual words\u003cbr\u003e\"happy release,\" certainly implied it or its close equivalent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was hoping that there would be a reply to it, for though she\u003cbr\u003ehad said in her note that her dear Lucia mustn't dream of answering\u003cbr\u003eit, that was a mere figure of speech, and she had instructed her\u003cbr\u003eparlour-maid who took it across to 'The Hurst' immediately after\u003cbr\u003elunch to say that she didn't know if there was an answer, and would\u003cbr\u003ewait to see, for Mrs. Lucas might perhaps give a little hint ever\u003cbr\u003eso vaguely about what the expectations were concerning which\u003cbr\u003eeverybody was dying to get information. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile she waited for this, Daisy Quantock was busy, like everybody\u003cbr\u003eelse in the village on this beautiful afternoon of spring, with her\u003cbr\u003egarden, hacking about with a small but destructive fork in her\u003cbr\u003eflower-beds.  She was a gardener of the ruthless type, and went for\u003cbr\u003eany small green thing that incautiously showed a timid spike above\u003cbr\u003ethe earth, suspecting it of being a weed.  She had had a slight\u003cbr\u003edifference with the professional gardener who had hitherto worked\u003cbr\u003efor her on three afternoons during the week, and had told him that\u003cbr\u003ehis services were no longer required.  She meant to do her\u003cbr\u003egardening herself this year, and was confident that a profusion of\u003cbr\u003ebeautiful flowers and a plethora of delicious vegetables would be\u003cbr\u003ethe result.  At the end of her garden path was a barrow of rich\u003cbr\u003emanure, which she proposed, when she had finished the slaughter of\u003cbr\u003ethe innocents, to dig into the depopulated beds.  On the other side\u003cbr\u003eof her paling her neighbour Georgie Pillson was rolling his strip\u003cbr\u003eof lawn, on which during the summer he often played croquet on a\u003cbr\u003esmall scale.  Occasionally they shouted remarks to each other, but\u003cbr\u003eas they got more and more out of breath with their exertions the\u003cbr\u003eremarks got fewer.  Mrs. Quantock's last question had been \"What do\u003cbr\u003eyou do with slugs, Georgie?\" and Georgie had panted out, \"Pretend\u003cbr\u003eyou don't see them.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Quantock had lately grown rather stout owing to a diet of sour\u003cbr\u003emilk, which with plenty of sugar was not palatable; but sour milk\u003cbr\u003eand pyramids of raw vegetables had quite stopped all the symptoms\u003cbr\u003eof consumption which the study of a small but lurid medical manual\u003cbr\u003ehad induced.  To-day she had eaten a large but normal lunch in\u003cbr\u003eorder to test the merits of her new cook, who certainly was a\u003cbr\u003esuccess, for her husband had gobbled up his food with great avidity\u003cbr\u003einstead of turning it over and over with his fork as if it was hay.\u003cbr\u003eIn consequence, stoutness, surfeit, and so much stooping had made\u003cbr\u003eher feel rather giddy, and she was standing up to recover,\u003cbr\u003ewondering if this giddiness was a symptom of something dire, when\u003cbr\u003ede Vere, for such was the incredible name of her parlour-maid, came\u003cbr\u003edown the steps from the dining-room with a note in her hand.  So\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Quantock hastily took off her gardening gloves of stout\u003cbr\u003eleather, and opened it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a sentence of formal thanks for her sympathy which Mrs.\u003cbr\u003eLucas immensely prized, and then followed these ridiculous words:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt has been a terrible blow to my poor Pepino and myself.  We\u003cbr\u003etrusted that Auntie Amy might have been spared us for a few years\u003cbr\u003eyet.","brand":"WDS Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47182379188464,"sku":"2940013750616","price":2.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013750616_p0.jpg?v=1763589770","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013750616","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}