“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. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure.
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