“You permitted me then to call you my friend. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. Womanhood is sacred to me. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. So he made his dispositions and went off on some other fool’s errand. She lived, he noted, very carelessly.
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