He had been right about my need for Mary’s companionship; there were days when the hours seemed to be filled with nothing more than the ticking of the clock and waiting for him to return home. Even then, he often worked late into the night and I would wake in the early hours to see that his place in bed beside me was still empty. If I went into the sitting room, I would find him writing in the guttering light of a candle. Or, sometimes, he would simply be slumped across his work asleep, the pen still between his finger and thumb. I never woke him, for when I did he would not return to bed, but would take up his pen again with great haste, distressed by his somnolence. If today he had produced twenty pages, then tomorrow it must be five more, and he would labour on and on with unflagging resolve until he had reached his goal. ‘After all, Kate,’ he would say with great earnestness, ‘my luck could change in a moment.’ But his success brought with it jealousy and resentment from some of his former associates.
