"Different," I said. "She was younger, less strong-willed, less clever,
less passionate perhaps. But alone--alone, in all the world. Every one
must love her--No one could help it...."
I broke off again. Bohun waited.
I went on. "Semyonov saw her and snatched her from the Englishman to
whom she was engaged. I don't think she ever really loved the
Englishman, but she loved Semyonov."
"Well?" said Bohun.
"She was killed. A stray shot, when she was giving tea to the men in the
trenches.... It meant a lot... to all of us. The Englishman was killed
too, so he was all right. I think Semyonov would have liked that same
end; but he didn't get it, so he's remained desolate. Really desolate,
in a way that only your thorough sensualist can be. A beautiful fruit
just within his grasp, something at last that can tempt his jaded
appetite. He's just going to taste it, when whisk! it's gone, and gone,
perhaps, into some one else's hands. How does he know? How does he know
anything? There may be another life--who can really prove there isn't?
and when you've seen something in the very thick and glow of existence,
something more alive than life itself, and, click! it's gone--well, it
_must_ have gone somewhere, mustn't it? Not the body only, but that
soul, that spirit, that individual personal expression of beauty and
purity and loveliness? Oh, it must be somewhere yet!.
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