Then lifting her from the bed with
as much respect as one would show to a dead body, he carried her
across the room, murmuring--
"My poor, poor Tess--my dearest, darling Tess! So sweet, so good, so
true!"
The words of endearment, withheld so severely in his waking hours,
were inexpressibly sweet to her forlorn and hungry heart. If it had
been to save her weary life she would not, by moving or struggling,
have put an end to the position she found herself in. Thus she lay
in absolute stillness, scarcely venturing to breathe, and, wondering
what he was going to do with her, suffered herself to be borne out
upon the landing.
"My wife--dead, dead!" he said.
He paused in his labours for a moment to lean with her against the
banister. Was he going to throw her down? Self-solicitude was near
extinction in her, and in the knowledge that he had planned to depart
on the morrow, possibly for always, she lay in his arms in this
precarious position with a sense rather of luxury than of terror. If
they could only fall together, and both be dashed to pieces, how fit,
how desirable.
However, he did not let her fall, but took advantage of the support
of the handrail to imprint a kiss upon her lips--lips in the day-time
scorned.
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