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"What! what!" she panted. "Nay! nay! nay!" and her eyes grew wide
and wild.
She sank upon her knees, so shuddering that her teeth began to
chatter. She pushed him and shook him by the shoulder.
"Stir!" she cried in a loud whisper. "Move thee! Why dost thou lie
so? Stir!"
Yet he stirred not, but lay inert, only with his lips drawn back,
showing his white teeth a little, as if her horrid agony made him
begin to laugh. Shuddering, she drew slowly nearer, her eyes more
awful than his own. Her hand crept shaking to his wrist and
clutched it. There was naught astir--naught! It stole to his
breast, and baring it, pressed close. That was still and moveless
as his pulse; for life was ended, and a hundred mouldering years
would not bring more of death.
"I have KILLED thee," she breathed. "I have KILLED thee--though I
meant it not--even hell itself doth know. Thou art a dead man--and
this is the worst of all!"
His hand fell heavily from hers, and she still knelt staring, such a
look coming into her face as throughout her life had never been
there before--for 'twas the look of a creature who, being tortured,
the worst at last being reached, begins to smile at Fate.
"I have killed him!" she said, in a low, awful voice; "and he lies
here--and outside people walk, and know not. But HE knows--and I--
and as he lies methinks he smiles--knowing what he has done!"
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