. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. Not us. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. Diamonds! You shall have all that you can carry away, sacks full if you like.
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