“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. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. She is no longer mine; she is yours. Without preamble, in a voice of extreme exasperation, he demanded, ‘Now what the devil’s to do? What in God’s name do you mean by sending Gerald such a ridiculous letter? Never read anything half as crazy.
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