May stopped and looked absently
through its lighted, notice-covered panes.
"Send him a few lines," she thought; "because I am so stupid, I
could not tell him enough, and then--"
She did not finish the sentence, but all beyond was blank peace.
She went in, bought a letter-card, and wrote:--
"I could have loved you devotedly, intensely, had you wished
it, but you have made it clear to-night that you do not want
love--at any rate, not mine. I have discovered that I have
courage enough to die, but not to live without you. I am going
to the sea now, and in an hour we shall be separated for ever.
I shall know nothing and you will care nothing, so it seems a
good arrangement. My last thought will be of you, my last
desire for you, my last breath your name."
She fastened it with an untrembling hand, passed out of the office,
posted it, and went straight down a side street to the parade.
The night was still, bound in a frosty silence. The temperature
sank momentarily, and the icy grip intensified in the air.
Overhead the sky was black, and glittered coldly with the winter
stars. Beside and behind her and before her not a living
creature's footstep broke the silence. The sea lay smooth, black,
and motionless on her left, like some huge sleeping monster.
She walked on rapidly: a glorious, vigorous, living, youthful
figure, full of that tremendous activity of brain and pulse and
blood, so valuable when there is a use for it, so dangerous when
thrown back upon itself.
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