With our hands still joined she nodded her head many times, and she lifted my hands and put them to her lips and to her bosom. “Only one word now my dear” I says. “Is there any one?”
She looked inquiringly “Any one?”
“That I can go to?”
She shook her head.
“No one that I can bring?”
She shook her head.
“No one is wanted by me my dear. Now that may be considered past and gone.”
Not much more than a week afterwards—for this was far on in the time of our being so together—I was bending over at her bedside with my ear down to her lips, by turns listening for her breath and looking for a sign of life in her face. At last it came in a solemn way—not in a flash but like a kind of pale faint light brought very slow to the face.
She said something to me that had no sound in it, but I saw she asked me:
“Is this death?”