I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. She listened, listened intently for several minutes. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. She was no longer there. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand.
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