“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. Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis.
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