His kind, strong, ugly face: it moved beside her: its fearless,
tender eyes now pleading, now commanding.
He needed her. She heard his passionate, low voice, as she had heard it
in the little garden above Meudon: "Because you won't be there; and
without you I can do nothing." What right had this poor, worn-out shadow
to stand between them, to the end? Had love and life no claims, but only
weakness? She had taken all, had given nothing. It was but reparation
she was making. Why stop her?
She was alone in a maze of narrow, silent streets that ended always in a
high blank wall. It seemed impossible to get away from this blank wall.
Whatever way she turned she was always coming back to it.
What was she to do? Drag the woman back to life against her will--lead
her back to him to be a chain about his feet until the end? Then leave
him to fight the battle alone?
And herself? All her world had been watching and would know. She had
counted her chickens before they were dead. She had set her cap at the
man, reckoning him already widowed; and his wife had come to life and
snatched it from her head.
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