She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. Except he was the only idiot who would stay. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. In his desire to be emphatic and to avenge himself for his over-night distresses, he speedily became brutal, more brutal than she had ever known him before. It won’t even know whether to be scandalized at us or forgiving. Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. Listen to me, Winifred. For a moment she remained silent. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. She had a gold watch, a very good gold watch that had been her mother’s, a pearl necklace that was also pretty good, some unpretending rings, some silver bangles and a few other such inferior trinkets, three pounds thirteen shillings unspent of her dress and book allowance and a few good salable books. " "Do not distress him, dear father," said Winifred; "he suffers deeply. The Night-Cellar. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her.
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