The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. His literary instincts began to stir. This is where my character, Lucia, is coming from. “Should I leave? Sounds like she is running out of food. Then the dagger’s point came in a whirling arc towards his face. .
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