He wrote to me and proposed a plan: a marriage between us, on paper only. He had heard my troubles and wanted to help.” Mrs. Penrose now smiled, a soft, small smile. “I accepted. We had a wonderful year together, a year of simple friendship. Upon his death, he left me a tidy sum, enough that I could be modestly independent for the rest of my days.” I blinked. “But you came to live with your brother.” “Not for money,” she said. “For company.
