I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. She had heard Alice talking and crying at the same time, a painful noise. And, if you hear any odd noise in the parlour, don't mind it. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table.
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