I was at railroad museum surrounded with old engines, rails, cables, and small replicas of stations and roundhouses. In one corner was a well, with rope and bucket above, but with no wall or curbing around it. My first wife, Betsy, was yelling at me, mixed with silence and surly anger and great hostility. While her back was turned to me, I gave her a great shove and sent her 15 yards head first down into the well. I was quiet, pleased, and surrounded by a crystal silence for a few minutes with her absent from sight. Then I thought she may be dead and I accused of murder. So I went to the edge and looked over into the darkness. Near the big bucket floating on the surface I saw the outline of her body, clothed, and by looking under the shadow of the bucket, I saw her face, and it had a slight smile and I saw she was alive. I talked to her and said I would lift her up and she looked and said nothing, but looked pleasant. I then tried pulling on the rope, hoping she would catch hold of the bucket. But she did not try. I then told her I would lower a second rope which she could put under her arms, and I and others would pull her out. It was then morning (as if a whole night had gone by) and museum employees were returning. Also, it was like a machine shop and real roundhouse with men nearby with overalls and greasy hands. I was afraid they would look down the well and I would be under suspicion. I looked quietly for more rope and found some. When I went to the edge of the well, Emma was starting up a rope ladder (used on landing craft and helicopters) and she was beautiful, like Botticelli's Birth of Venus, completely naked, with full breasts and ample white-skinned stomach, and smiling, quietly and restrainedly, as in the Botticelli pictures--Venus and Primavera--with wet hair not too shiny and sleek. Near to the time of touching her hand as she ascended, the dream ended.