“You call this a hardship of living as man and wife. I would call it a hardship of living without servants.”
“And who made them servants? As I say, universal justice is our Fury.”
“Not even Shelley would have dreamed that.” Mary shook her head. “You should not live here.”
“I should not live anywhere,” Keats replied. “I sit in this room and think of Dante’s heaven.”
Mary followed his eyes over the burn mark that wrapped the wall. “I see the mark of hellfire.”
“You must look deeper. The heaven Dante gives is not happy.” He fixed her with his green eyes. “There is joy in heaven, of course, but no happiness. The blessed would not understand it. Their being is duty, the praising of their creator; their reward is to be dissolved in that duty. It is like looking at the sun. But they are hard
