"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. It’s my choice, Lucy. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality. He will wish to have his fears laid to rest. It’s the public entrance. ‘Now what?’ The guard jerked his head up the corridor. I never let her read stories, or have pets, dolls. Behind the illustrious personages just described marched a troop of stalwart fellows, with white badges in their hats, quarterstaves, oaken cudgels, and links in their hands. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. ” “But why?” “He’s married—and, I believe, living separated from his wife.
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