"That is my death warrant," he said to himself. "If she were there, I
should wish to die in her arms."
A burst of gleeful and hearty laughter made him turn his face towards
the bed; he saw Pauline's face through the transparent curtains,
smiling like a child for gladness over a successful piece of mischief.
Her pretty hair fell over her shoulders in countless curls; she looked
like a Bengal rose upon a pile of white roses.
"I cajoled Jonathan," said she. "Doesn't the bed belong to me, to me
who am your wife? Don't scold me, darling; I only wanted to surprise
you, to sleep beside you. Forgive me for my freak."
She sprang out of bed like a kitten, showed herself gleaming in her
lawn raiment, and sat down on Raphael's knee.
"Love, what gulf were you talking about?" she said, with an anxious
expression apparent upon her face.
"Death."
"You hurt me," she answered. "There are some thoughts upon which we,
poor women that we are, cannot dwell; they are death to us. Is it
strength of love in us, or lack of courage? I cannot tell. Death does
not frighten me," she began again, laughingly. "To die with you, both
together, to-morrow morning, in one last embrace, would be joy. It
seems to me that even then I should have lived more than a hundred
years.
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