"What, my dearest? What?"
"Don't touch me! That he may die!"
They drew apart again, hearing each other's quick breathing through the
darkness.
"You wish that too?" he said.
"I wish it always--every day, every hour, every moment!" She paused, and
then let the words break from her. "You'd better know it; you'd better
know the worst of me. I'm not the saint you suppose; the duty I do is
poisoned by the thoughts I think. Day by day, hour by hour, I wish him
dead. When he goes out I pray for something to happen; when he comes
back I say to myself: 'Are you here again?' When I hear of people being
killed in accidents, I think: 'Why wasn't he there?' When I read the
death-notices in the paper I say: 'So-and-so was just his age.' When
I see him taking such care of his health and his diet--as he does, you
know, except when he gets reckless and begins to drink too much--when
I see him exercising and resting, and eating only certain things, and
weighing himself, and feeling his muscles, and boasting that he hasn't
gained a pound, I think of the men who die from overwork, or who throw
their lives away for some great object, and I say to myself: 'What can
kill a man who thinks only of himself?' And night after night I keep
myself from going to sleep for fear I may dream that he's dead. When I
dream that, and wake and find him there it's worse than ever--"
She broke off with a sob, and the loud lapping of the water under the
floor was like the beat of a rebellious heart.
"There, you know the truth!" she said.