Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Think! You could not have done it. All who lived there aspired to be something greater, all who lived there had hope, even the slaves! Oh, Lucia, if you could have seen the Parthenon, or attended the plays at the Athaneum, you would know why I loved it there. “I expected you this morning,” he said. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy.
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