"You must read the story for yourselves if you would enjoy the
subtle sadness that surrounds it, the delicate aroma of regret
through which it moves. The husband finding after some little
difficulty the right key, fits it into the lock of the bureau. As a
piece of furniture, plain, solid, squat, it has always jarred upon
his artistic sense. She too, his good, affectionate Sara, had been
plain, solid, a trifle squat. Perhaps that was why the poor woman
had clung so obstinately to the one thing in the otherwise perfect
house that was quite out of place there. Ah, well! she is gone now,
the good creature. And the bureau--no, the bureau shall remain.
Nobody will need to come into this room, no one ever did come there
but the woman herself. Perhaps she had not been altogether so happy
as she might have been. A husband less intellectual--one from whom
she would not have lived so far apart--one who could have entered
into her simple, commonplace life! it might have been better for
both of them. He draws down the lid, pulls out the largest drawer.
It is full of manuscripts, folded and tied neatly with ribbons once
gay, now faded.
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