“The living! The living? It is the fruit of death.”
“What is death?”
“My wife.”
“Your child—lives.”
“My life is dead.”
“It is but born.”
The woman looked at the pinched, faded face of the corpse.
“The child is the soul of my death, and my death lives.” He stood beside her at the coffin. “This is death.”
“Yes, this is death.” Her voice was as if it came from the tomb. “You loved her?”
“Ah, I loved my wife better than all else in life. Those cold eyes I kissed; those dry lips kissed me; her folded hands held mine in love. Only a man—only some men, can know what that is to a man.”