“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 would be swindling. "I cannot—will not suffer you to remain here. "Thank you, Mrs. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. “Dear John,” she whispered.
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