This is the inventory of what I now have:
One set monogrammed sheets, stored under the bed. One set, once-washed, petal pink sheets, on the bed. Two bars, French triple-milled soap of lavender and olive leaf. One guest soap, still in its paper. A long white nightgown. A black slip. The bathrobe which belongs to Sunday, the silk robe which waits for an evening. Set of four wine glasses, three in the cupboard. Set of four linen placemats with a red stripe. Set of four solid red cloth napkins. A stack of small bowls for nuts, or oils, or the tails of shrimp. A ceramic swan waiting to hold flowers. A vase which holds the pairs of unlit beeswax tapers. A drawer of framed photographs, overturned. The blueberry bush he planted. The ruby I wear on my ring finger in place of the diamond which rests in a box.