“Seems to me, George”
I bent my head down, and he tried to lift his hand to my shoulder. I raised him a little on his pillows, and listened.
“It seems to me, George, always—there must be something in me—that won’t die.”
He looked at me as though the decision rested with me.
“I think,” he said; “—something.”
Then, for a moment, his mind wandered. “Just a little link,” he whispered almost pleadingly, and lay quite still, but presently he was uneasy again.
“Some other world”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Who knows?”
“Some other world.”
“Not the same scope for enterprise,” I said.