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Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider), 1856-1925

"She"

The heap beneath the white garment we did not uncover. We had
no wish to look upon that terrible sight again. But we went to the pile
of rippling hair that had fallen from her in the agony of that hideous
change which was worse than a thousand natural deaths, and each of us
drew from it a shining lock, and these locks we still have, the sole
memento that is left to us of Ayesha as we knew her in the fulness of
her grace and glory. Leo pressed the perfumed hair to his lips.
"She called to me not to forget her," he said hoarsely; "and swore that
we should meet again. By Heaven! I never will forget her. Here I swear
that if we live to get out of this, I will not for all my days have
anything to say to another living woman, and that wherever I go I will
wait for her as faithfully as she waited for me."
"Yes," I thought to myself, "if she comes back as beautiful as we knew
her. But supposing she came back _like that!_"[*]
[*] What a terrifying reflection it is, by the way, that
nearly all our deep love for women who are not our kindred
depends--at any rate, in the first instance--upon their
personal appearance.


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