“It is true. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. She could not analyse what was stirring in her: the thought of losing the doll, the dog, and the cat. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. "To-morrow it will be mine. “Will you help me?” he asked. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. Lucy tried not to make her cringe noticeable. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit.
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