"You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. You seemed complete—without that. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it. “I refuse. I hope that some day he'll understand how much he owes you. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. This I know, for the Valades have taught me so, and the nuns also. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child.
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