Then I saw that her bureau, over which she and I had once expended, ages ago, an absurd amount of energy, had been moved, and stood squarely across the hall door.
Now, why had she done that?
I was still stroking her forehead and temples, trying to control the fever that was in my veins, trying to think clearly.
I looked again at her.
She made an effort to smile at me. There was infinite sadness in that effort.
Suddenly she turned toward me, on her side, hiding her face from me, pillowing it on my hands, which she held close, if weakly, with her own cold hands. And again that low, pitiful sound escaped her lips.
“I wanted to die,” she breathed. “I wanted to die! Why did n't you let me die!”
My heart stood still.
I turned her face to mine, and bent low over her.
“What have you done?” I asked her.