“Farewell, then.”
He put out his hand timidly. She seized it and held it passionately.
“Yes, yes, Herzel! Do not leave me! Come and see me here—as a friend, an acquaintance, a man I used to know. The others are thoughtless—they forget me—I shall lie here—perhaps the Angel of Death will forget me, too.” Her grasp tightened till it hurt him acutely.
“Yes, I will come—I will come often,” he said, with a sob of physical pain.
Her clasp loosened. She dropped his hand.
“But not till thou art married,” she said.
“Be it so.”
“Of course, thou must have a ‘still wedding.’ The English Synagogue will not marry thee.”
“The Maggid will marry me.”
“Thou wilt show me her cesubah when thou comest next?”