Just as she had stood, I knew, eight
purgatorial years ago.
The story was done. She sank into the chair.
"And the book?" I asked at length.
She roused from her reverie. "Oh! yes, the book. It had no purpose to
live for, you see. I sent for it, cancelled the agreement. They wrote to
me twice about it, but I was firm; there was no reason why I should
trouble. I have everything I want," and again her voice trailed into
silence.
I looked about the strange, bare room, at the strange, slender figure,
and I rose and folded her about with my arms; but she struggled in my
embrace. "No, no, do not touch me!" she cried sharply, in a tone of
suffering. My hands fell from her, and I knelt abashed at her side. "Oh!
please forgive me. I cannot be touched. I hate it. You have been so
good," she said, with compunction, regarding me with a certain remorse.
I was not aggrieved at being repulsed. As I resumed my seat, I said,
"You have only one life to live; snatch at least what you can out of the
years. Take my wisdom. You have the book yet? Good. Come back with me;
we will get it published. Open your heart, make one effort at living:
you can but fail. Come away from the sound of the waves and the wind
through the scrub-oaks; from this room and its memories. Be what you
might have been."
For the first time she faintly smiled.
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