All
demur was swept away; the craving for that death remained intense,
invincible, beneath the imperious stubborn call of the inner voice which
robbed her of the power of will and action. He would be dead and he would
never possess the works. And therefore, standing stiff and breathless
against the wall, she did not stop him. She could hear his light
breathing, she could discern his profile, then the nape of his neck. He
had passed. Another step, another step! And yet if she had raised a call
she might still have changed the course of destiny even at that last
moment. She fancied that she had some such intention, but she was
clenching her teeth tightly enough to break them. And he, Blaise, took
yet a further step, still advancing quietly and confidently over that
friendly ground, without even a glance before him, absorbed as he was in
thoughts of his work. And the ground failed him, and there was a loud,
terrible cry, a sudden gust following the fall, and a dull crash down
below in the depths of the black darkness.
Constance did not stir. For a moment she remained as if petrified, still
listening, still waiting. But only deep silence arose from the abyss.
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