coldness seemed to come through the cover to his fingers.
He let his hand stay upon hers -- perhaps the
warmth would flow back into the cold arm, the chill
heart; perhaps he could give her some of his vitality.
The possibility afforded him a meager comfort, instilled
a faint glow into his benumbed being. His
hand closed upon that covered by the linen like a
shroud. He sat rigid, concentrated, in his effort,
his purpose. The light flickered again from the
fiery perishing of a second moth.

A strange feeling crept over him, a deepened sense
of suspense, of imminence. He fingered his throat,
and his hand was icy where it touched his burning
face. He stood up in an increasing, nameless disturbance.

A faint spasm crossed the drained countenance beneath
him; the mouth fell open.

He knew suddenly that Lettice was dead.

There her clothes lay strewn on the chair and
floor, the long, black stockings and the rumpled
chemise strung with narrow blue ribband. She had
worn them on her warm, young body; she had tied
the ribband in the morning and untied it at night,
untied it at night... it was night now.

A slow, exhausted deliberation of mind and act
took the place of his late panic. He smoothed the
sheet where he had grasped her hand in the futile
endeavor to instil into her some of his warmth.

[[276]]

p275 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p276w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p277

v?