He had, by what grit he could summon, gone along for five months. But
ahead were five years, ten years, thirty years, perhaps, and what of
them? Each day was a struggle; the living of each day a triumph. Through
thousands of days should it be the same?
It was the future which took hold of him then--smothered him. He went
down before the vision of those unlived days, the grim vision of those
relentless, inevitable days, standing there waiting to be lived. It was
desolation. The surrender of a strong man who had tried to the uttermost.
Whether it was because he upset a chair, whether she heard him groan, or
whether she just knew in that way of hers that it was time for her to be
there, he did not know. But he felt her at the door, and held out
beseeching arms.
He crushed her to him very close. He wanted to bring her more close than
she had ever come before. For he needed her as he had not needed her
until this hour. "Ernestine! Ernestine!"--the sob in his voice was not to
be denied--"What am I going to do?"
"Karl,"--after her moment of passionate silence--"tell me this.
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