They fecklessly squandered every penny they got their hands on. He had multiple affairs. She had multiple affairs. He drank some more. She never scolded him for his drinking, nor for his profligacy with money; they knew one another’s weaknesses all too well. Constitutionally incapable of leading a bourgeois existence even though both longed for it, they lived like wild gypsy souls rolling and tumbling from one end to the other of a wild gypsy land, inhabiting a succession of cottages, houses, apartments and garrets from Swansea to Hampshire. He wrote and published and went on tour. He drank to the extent that life was becoming one prolonged debauch. His bacchanalian tendencies inflamed petty jealousies and incited fights over real and imagined infidelities. Worn out by debt and worry, and the demands of supporting a growing family, and sick in body and soul, he started to experience blackouts related to the alcoholic destruction of his brain.