Finally Lucy replied. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. "He acts queerly, too. I’m leaving you, and you can’t stop me. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. \"I told you he likes you!\" She whispered hotly into Lucy's ear. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the bell violently. In their happiest times, he was the most faithful and devoted of husbands.
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