"You don't know me,
Sylvia. You don't know me--at all."
Yet the husky utterance seemed to plead with her as though he
longed for her to understand.
She stooped lower over him. "Never mind, dear! I love you all the
same," she said. "And that's why I can't bear you--to go--like
this." Her voice shook unexpectedly. She paused to steady it.
"Guy," she urged, almost under her breath at length, "you will
live--you will try to live--for my sake?"
Again his eyes were upon her. Again, more strongly, the flame
kindled. Then, very suddenly, a hard shudder went through him, and
a dreadful shadow arose and quenched that vital gleam. For a few
moments consciousness itself seemed to be submerged in the most
awful suffering that Sylvia had ever beheld. His eyeballs rolled
upwards under lids that twitched convulsively. The hand she held
closed in an agonized grip upon her own. She thought that he was
dying, and braced herself instinctively to witness the last
terrible struggle, the rending asunder of soul and body.
Then--as one upon the edge of an abyss--he spoke, his voice no more
than a croaking whisper.
"It's hell for me--either way. Living or dead--hell!"
The paroxysm spent itself and passed like an evil spirit. The
struggle for which she had prepared herself did not come. Instead,
the flickering lids closed over the tortured eyes, the clutching
hand relaxed, and there fell a great silence.
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