“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. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. His shoulders relaxed and his gaze wavered. “I’m not a good woman. And, though the villain can't see his orders executed, I've no doubt some one else will. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. The three of them laughed joyously.
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