She saw the body of her husband, the legs
drawn up a bit, the arms stretched out, the wounded head turned so that the
blood flowing from the forehead could not be seen. Only a few moments
before, this limp, pitiful object had been speaking to her--calling her by
name. It seemed incredible that Pell was powerless now to harm her. Brute
though he had been, he gained, in this awesome instant, a strange glory, as
the dead always do. The splendor of that universal experience was suddenly
his; and, even lying there like a discarded meal-sack, he took on something
of the pomp of a cardinal who had died. Never, of course, had she respected
him more; and though she could not bring herself to shed a tear, she
looked down at the still body, huddled in a heap, and craved one more word
with him. No matter what has happened between a man and a woman; no matter
what tragic hours they have known, when the moment of separation comes,
there is always that wish to have explained a little more, to have taken a
different course in all one's previous actions. It was not that she blamed
herself; she had nothing on her conscience. But there was an instinctive
dread at meeting the certain pain of this crisis.
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