couldn’t agree more, Peter. That note will stay inside of her like a knife. Every move she makes, it will cut. The bastard left her the guilt of her adultery and now the guilt of his death, and that note made it sharp and clean. As the Bard put it, he left her ‘a plague of sighing and grief.’ ”
“He also, it seems, left her all his dough.”
“Which makes it even more diabolical. If he had cut her off with only dower rights, she could have something in the way of hate, which might give her a hinge for escape. But the weirdo left her no out. Guilt, guilt, guilt, and his money. How long can you go on that? The human mechanism is delicate, and the weirdo had the feel of it.”
“Meaning?”
“On the surface, who can complain? She was cheating, so he left her free to cheat. She stayed along with him for his money, so he left her his money. On the surface, it sounds great. Inside, it all eats like acid. Cheating is guilt, and that eats. His death was her work and he made it plain, and that will eat. He bequeathed no weapon to her to lash out against him, and no balm as salve for her conscience. He gave her no cause for wrath, for hate, for revenge, any of which might have saved her. He left her his money, and any time she spends a nickel of that on the bartender, or even on herself, it will be with the knowledge that it is money which came to her because of her cheating and his death. Unless she’s strong, very strong—unless he misjudged her and I doubt that, shrewd as he has shown himself to be—then in my opinion it will be a downward spiral of guilt, self-hate, self-disgust and, in the end, destruction.”
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