And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. ” He stood looking at the preparations before them with an unusual preoccupation of manner, then roused himself to take her jacket, a little awkwardly, and hand it to the waiter who hung it in the corner of the room. In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. You are alone in the world, you have no one save yourself to consider. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep.
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