Suddenly, with a quick, impulsive movement, he raised his head to
glance at me.
"She loved you," he said; and though there was neither jealousy
nor anger in his voice, somehow I could not meet his gaze.
"She loved you," he repeated in a tone half of wonder. "And
you--you--"
I answered his eyes.
"She was yours," I said, with a touch of bitterness that
persuaded him of the truth. "All her beauty, all her loveliness,
all her charm, to be buried--Ah! God help us--"
My voice broke, and I knelt on the ground beside Harry and
pressed my lips to the white forehead and golden hair of what had
been Le Mire.
Thus we remained for a long time.
It was hard to believe that death had in reality taken possession
of the still form stretched as in repose before us. Her body,
still warm, seemed quivering with the instinct of life; but the
eyes were not the eyes of Desiree. I closed them, and arranged
the tangled mass of hair as well as possible over her shoulders.
As I did so the air, set in motion by my hand, caused some of the
golden strands to tremble gently across her lips; and Harry bent
forward with a painful eagerness, thinking that she had breathed.
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