Here are some new sentences from her story this week.
Monday: Lucianna parted her lips to deny that she had had anything to do with the dish, but Sir Balduin preempted her with a robust smacking sound that followed a morsel of chicken he had chewed and swallowed.
Tuesday: Poetry, like Italian, dismayed him, though, making him question his wits when he faltered, upsetting the confidence in his intelligence he realized he’d always taken for granted in plainspoken conversations.
Wednesday: “Foxy hair? Milky smile? You are not only drunk, you are an atrociously bad poet.”
Thursday: Sir Balduin did not see how he could redeem himself after this disaster, yet he could not prevent the return of a fresh flutter of hope at Serafino’s words.
Friday: It was Lucianna’s tigress nature Sir Balduin had come to love, once he had realized it stemmed not from dignity or pride or disdain as had first appeared, but from a fiery protectiveness for those she cherished with a dauntless passion.