"People kill themselves in despair," Waymark went on, "that is, when
they have drunk to the very dregs the cup of life's bitterness. If
they were wise, they would die at that moment--if it ever comes--
when joy seems supreme and stable. Life can give nothing further,
and it has no more hellish misery than disillusion following upon
delight."
"Did you ever seriously think of killing yourself?" Ida asked,
gazing at him closely.
"Yes. I have reached at times the point when I would not have moved
a muscle to escape death, and from that it is not far to suicide.
But my joy had never come, and it is hard to go away without that
one draught.--And you!"
"I went so far once as to buy poison. But neither had I tasted any
happiness, and I could not help hoping."
"And you still wait--still hope?"
Ida made no direct answer. She gazed far off at the
indistinguishable border-land of sea and sky, and when she spoke it
was in a softened tone.
"When I was here last, I was seven years old. Now I am not quite
nineteen. How long I have lived since then--how long! Yet my life
didnot really begin till I was about eleven. Till then I was a
happy child, understanding nothing.
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