Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. That is easy. He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over. He had a wild impulse to shout. " "I can't.
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