The one thing necessary,
the one thing which would have made the calamity bearable, perhaps better
than bearable, was wanting. She might love or have loved things in him,
or about him, or done by him; himself she did not love; and now nothing
but himself remained to her. Seeing the matter in this light, Dick was
dumb before Morewood's challenge to him to say, if he dared, that he
hoped a long life for Alexander Quisante. Yet neither would he wish his
death; for Dick had been an enthusiast, the spell had been very strong on
him, and there still hung about him something of that inability to think
of Quisante as dead or dying, something of the idea that he must live and
must by very strength of will find strength of body, which had prevented
May herself from believing that the news which came in her telegram could
mean anything really serious. While Quisante lived, there would always be
to Dick a possibility that he would rise up from his sickness and get to
work again. Death would end this, death with its finality and its utter
incongruous stillness.
Pages:
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393