He could remember her little cry of delight. To
him, of course, she had left nothing in particular, unless it were her
diary. Fifteen little volumes, bound in green leather
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on her writing table. Ever since they were married, she had kept a
diary. Some of their very few--he could not call them quarrels, say
tiffs--had been about that diary. When he came in and found her writing,
she always shut it or put her hand over it. "No, no, no," he could hear
her say
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legacy. It was the only thing they had not shared when she was alive.
But he had always taken it for granted that she would outlive him.