She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. ’ ‘Of course she could not have known to whom they belonged. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. Lest the carpenter should be taxed with too much uxoriousness, it behoves us to ascertain whether the personal attractions of his helpmate would, in any degree, justify the devotion he displayed. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. .
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