Dasha Ivanovna died on a bed of snow—On her dead face was a triumphant sweet look.

The fugitives wept and prayed as they buried her in the woods.

When summer came bluebells grew over her grave.

THE MAD ARTIST

Faintly—

Speak, speak—Angel or demon, or both, speak to me before I throw you into the sea.

The storm raged in all its fury around the house, and the rain beat down—

Speak, or I'll break you into a thousand pieces.