Harry Hunter finished his business quickly today, refusing even to have lunch with Mayor Charles, naturally to return to the hotel to accompany his little wife.
Isabella Weaver worked through the night again last night, tirelessly sketching and sending resumes to various companies, busy and overwhelmed. It was not until after six in the morning, after having breakfast, that she went to sleep.
Harry calculated, feeling a pang in his heart; she had only been sleeping four or five hours a day for quite some time.
At eleven-thirty, Harry entered the hotel suite and saw Isabella was already up.
She was wearing the hotel's white bathrobe, her feet in the hotel's white plush slippers, long hair casually tied up in a bun, groggily brushing her teeth in the bathroom.
Upon seeing Harry, she turned her head, her eyes were beautiful but unfocused, evidently still sleepy, and she mumbled, "Morning, Mr. Hunter."
