Petite build, like herself. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. . " "He has done too much already," answered the widow. "There's only one way out of the muddle, that I can see. . “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. “That’s the point. He could lose himself for hours at a time. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said.
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