I could not bear her glance.
It came from far away and passed through me to some place beyond.
"Old lad," I murmured, "dear, brave, old lad."
She died in the last hour of the night, before morning came.
She died hard and no one could help her.
She held my hand fast, but she did not know any longer that I was with her.
One time someone said:
"She is dead."
"No," I replied, "she is not dead yet.
She is still holding my hand fast."
Light.
Intolerable, harsh light.
People.
The doctor.
Slowly I opened my hand.
Pat's hand dropped down.
Blood.
A distorted, suffocated face.
Tortured, fixed eyes.
Brown, silky hair.
"Pat," said I. "Pat."
And for the first time she did not answer me.
"I'd like to be alone," said I.
"Shouldn't we first . . . ?" asked someone.
"No," said I. "Go out. Don't touch her."
Then I washed the blood from her.
I was like wood.
I combed her hair.
She grew cold.
I laid her in my bed and covered her with the bedclothes.
I sat beside her and could not think.
I sat on the chair and stared at her.
The dog came in and sat with me.
I watched her face alter.
I could do nothing but sit vacantly and watch her.
The morning came and it was she no longer.