"You found that enough?" asked Mills.
"Why ask now?" she remonstrated. "The truth--the truth is that I
never asked myself. Enough or not there was no room for anything
else. He was the shadow and the light and the form and the voice.
He would have it so. The morning he died they came to call me at
four o'clock. I ran into his room bare-footed. He recognized me
and whispered, 'You are flawless.' I was very frightened. He
seemed to think, and then said very plainly, 'Such is my character.
I am like that.' These were the last words he spoke. I hardly
noticed them then. I was thinking that he was lying in a very
uncomfortable position and I asked him if I should lift him up a
little higher on the pillows. You know I am very strong. I could
have done it. I had done it before. He raised his hand off the
blanket just enough to make a sign that he didn't want to be
touched. It was the last gesture he made. I hung over him and
then--and then I nearly ran out of the house just as I was, in my
night-gown. I think if I had been dressed I would have run out of
the garden, into the street--run away altogether. I had never seen
death. I may say I had never heard of it. I wanted to run from
it."
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