Cold lips pressed her hand. She
dreamed then, and in her dream he came from the grave to kiss her hand.
He came not only back to the world where he had triumphed, he came also
to the woman he had loved, who had not loved him. Again the kiss came
cold on her hand. She fell back with a sudden sob, not knowing whether
terror or repulsion or joy, held greater, sway in her. The kisses covered
her hand. Ah, the marvel! They grew living, they were warm now and
passionate. This was not a dead man's kiss. With a second cry she turned
her head. Quisante himself knelt by her, kissing her hand. His eyes rose
to hers, and she cried, "It is you! You're not dead! Thank God, thank
God!"
His eyes were gleaming in the strong excitement of his heart; he knew how
he had found her.
"No, not dead, not dead yet," he said. "But by heaven, when I am dead, I
won't leave you. I can't leave you. As I kiss your hand now, so will I
kiss it always, and with my soul I will worship you. But neither now nor
then will I kiss your lips."
"You won't kiss my lips?"
"No.
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