The words came as an epitome of the struggle that
was going on in his mind.
"Don't walk so fast, Tom. You are tiring me."
"Tiring you?" he exclaimed. He looked at her bent head and laughed,--a
short, mirthless chuckle. "You'll have to forgive me, Mary. You see
I've been thinking of something else. Men walk fast when they're in a
hurry."
"Is it much farther?" He could scarcely hear the words.
"Six or eight blocks, if I remember right."
She did not speak again until they were in the middle of the second
block beyond. From time to time he turned to look at her, his benumbed
soul trying to get in touch with the spirit that moved her to come
with him to the very brink of the grave. He was puzzled, he could not
understand it in her. If there was a hope of any kind lying buried
under the weight that was in his breast, he neither recognized nor
encouraged it. There was an awful, growing dread that she did not
intend to let him go in alone. He tried to put down the ghastly fear.
His glances at her became more frequent, less furtive. The thought of
this splendid, noble, beautiful creature going down into the black
waters after him was almost beyond his power of comprehension, and yet
he was slowly allowing it to take a hold on his senses.
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