“I do not cry. Instead, I pray.”
He looked at her. All of him was dry. From his words he seemed to have won bravery. She felt shut out in his looking.
His eyes were braver: his hands. They moved forward upon her shadowing face: they sought a thing, found it. They carried her mouth upon his, differently, upward. He stood, she under him. Her flesh touched his flesh.
Tall white flesh, scabbarded in black ... and in prayer. Lips washed clean of liquor, scrubbed lips, thin ... very thin. Hands corroded in cleanliness against the nape of her neck. Odorless, fireless.... Fanny flung her arms about him.... Shoulders pointed forward, thrusting away a world. She clasped him close.
“Harry—Harry,” she cried. “O I am so glad you are——” she stopped. She lay swaying in his arms, clasping him tighter, tighter. A faint moan rose from her parted lips as her arms clasped tighter....
They sat and looked at each other.
“You have loved me, Fanny.”
“Yes ... yes.”
“You are my wife.”