“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. “Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. She chastised herself for thinking of her husband and lord as being weak. Epithalamy might do. At least I can’t talk to them. He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise. That is what stands between us, if you would know—that. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. Your attitude to me—” He fell into a brown study.
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