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Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. "Stir a foot, at your peril. It’s these damned novels. At last she was roused. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. I have an aunt who is coming to live with me, and I do not intend to receive any visitors at all.
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