"I think it's time to go. If I stayed too long here I should become fit for nothing."
"Yes, that's true, I dare say. But—Maurice, it's so strange—I have a feeling as if you would always be in Sicily. I know it's absurd, and yet I have it. I feel as if you belonged to Sicily, and Sicily did not mean to part from you."
"That can't be. How could I stay here always?"
"I know."
"Unless," he said, as if some new thought had started suddenly into his mind—"unless I were—"
He stopped. He had remembered his sensation in the sea that gray morning of sirocco. He had remembered how he had played at dying.
"What?"
She looked at him and understood.
"Maurice—don't! I—I can't bear that!"
"Not one of us can know," he answered.