Death had never before looked into Warrington's life; he had viewed it
with equanimity, with a tolerant pity for those who succumbed to it,
for those whose hearts it ravaged with loneliness and longing. He had
used it frequently in his business as a property by which to arouse
the emotions of his audiences. That it should some day stand at his
side, looking into his eyes, never occurred to him. He tried to think,
to beguile himself into the belief that he should presently awake to
find it a dream. Futile expedient! She was dead; that dear, kind,
loving heart was dead. Ah! and she had died alone! A great sob choked
him. He sank into a chair and buried his face in his arms. The past
rushed over him like a vast wave. How many times had he carelessly
wounded that heart which had beat solely for him! How many times had
he given his word, only to break it! He was alone, alone; death had
severed the single tie; he was alone. Death is kind to the dead, but
harsh to the living. Presently his sighs became less regular, and at
length they ceased entirely.
The portiere rustled slightly, and Patty's face became visible.
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