"Well, gentlemen," rejoined Wood, mildly; "since Mr. Sheila decided to do a little laundry one day, clothes that were in Lucy’s hamper, a dirty clothes bin that Lucy had insisted that she have for herself separate from the family one. She is no longer mine; she is yours. And Gosse had been still there, so Martha said, and not in prison. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. She gloried in it: he needed her. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. ” She said, knowing that his kindness was certainly not the primary motivation for his magnum opus.
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