Why primp?
Why ornament?
Her Frank did not love her.

What to her now was a handsome residence in Michigan Avenue, the refinements of a French boudoir, or clothing that ran the gamut of the dressmaker's art, hats that were like orchids blooming in serried rows?
In vain, in vain! Like the raven that perched above the lintel of the door, sad memory was here, grave in her widow weeds, crying "never more." Aileen knew that the sweet illusion which had bound Cowperwood to her for a time had gone and would never come again.

He was here.

His step was in the room mornings and evenings; at night for long prosaic, uninterrupted periods she could hear him breathing by her side, his hand on her body.

There were other nights when he was not there--when he was "out of the city"-- and she resigned herself to accept his excuses at their face value.