For Monica Vitti, Eileen Gray and Frank Lloyd Wright, their homes were the culmination of passionate affairs. And the places they ended.

SOME OF MY FAVORITE STORIES are stories of houses. “The Spoils of Poynton,” about a house full of beloved antiquities. “Rebecca,” about a house haunted by a first wife. Ray Bradbury’s “The Veldt”: a house that takes over parenting. I love James Lees-Milne’s stories of National Trust houses, postwar stories of houses built on dynasties and coming apart. Then there is the special house, the one built on love, for a muse, a mistress, an adored spouse. In Virginia Woolf’s brief masterpiece “A Haunted House,” the ghosts are content, the walls of the house thrumming with whispers of peace, a happy marriage.

But so, too, can a house be haunted by a disappointment, by expired love, curdled, lending an imperceptible perfume to the halls and rooms. It is the whiff we catch at open houses and estate sales, whose occupants have divorced. According to 1 Corinthians, love is patient, love is kind. According to Joy Division, love will tear us apart. What happens when a couple outgrows a house, when they wake in a beloved room to realize they don’t belong there, that they’ve been living an illustration of a dream?

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