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9. The Last Days Of Sir Richmond Hardy | H. G. [Herbert George] Wells | |
Section 8 |
Page 2 of 2 |
She spoke, a little as though she thought aloud, a little as though she talked at that silent presence in the coffin. "I think he loved," she said. "Sometimes I think he loved me. But it is hard to tell. He was kind. He could be intensely kind and yet he didn't seem to care for you. He could be intensely selfish and yet he certainly did not care for himself. . . . Anyhow, I loved HIM. . . . There is nothing left in me now to love anyone else--for ever. . . ." She put her hands behind her back and looked at the dead man with her head a little on one side. "Too kind," she said very softly. "There was a sort of dishonesty in his kindness. He would not let you have the bitter truth. He would not say he did not love you. . . . "He was too kind to life ever to call it the foolish thing it is. He took it seriously because it takes itself seriously. He worked for it and killed himself with work for it . . . . " She turned to Dr. Martineau and her face was streaming with tears. "And life, you know, isn't to be taken seriously. It is a joke--a bad joke--made by some cruel little god who has caught a neglected planet. . . . Like torturing a stray cat. . . . But he took it seriously and he gave up his life for it. "There was much happiness he might have had. He was very capable of happiness. But he never seemed happy. This work of his came before it. He overworked and fretted our happiness away. He sacrificed his happiness and mine." |
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The Secret Places of the Heart H. G. [Herbert George] Wells |
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