"In fact, I think not."
He spoke very gravely. She stirred, and in a moment her other hand
came out to him also. He clasped it closely. Her eyes were shining
softly in the dusk.
"You are--so good to me, Edward--my darling," she said.
His head was bent over her hands. "Don't!" he muttered huskily.
Her fingers closed on his. "Edward, will you tell me something?" she
whispered.
"I don't know," he said.
"Yes, but I want you to. I'd rather hear it from you. The doctors don't
think I shall ever be fit for much again, do they?"
She spoke steadily, with a certain insistence. He looked up at her
sharply, with something of a glare in his eyes.
"You're not going to die--whatever they say!" he declared in a fierce
undertone.
"No--no, of course not!" She spoke soothingly, still smiling at him,
for that barely checked ferocity of his sent rapture through her soul.
"Do you suppose I'd be such an idiot as to go and die just when I'm
beginning to enjoy life? I'm not the puny heroine of a lachrymose
novel. I hope I've got more sense. No, dear, what I really meant
was--was--am I ever going to be strong enough--woman enough--to give
you--what you want so much?"
"Vera--my dear!" He leaned swiftly to her, his arm pillowed her head.
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