She knew that he had not
washed his face, and worried a little about it, and then smiled again.
His voice grew fainter. She tried to lift her hand to fold her letter.
It felt as though it were miles away from her, and too heavy to move.
"Why, I'm dying now," she thought, and was surprised to find it such an
ordinary, unvolitional thing to do. It was very good to do something
unvolitional, very restful.--Little snappings sounded in her ears, and
distant crashings and thunders as of a storm perceived by a deaf man who
can see and understand without hearing.
She thought very clearly of Death for a moment, and then of God. She had
often thought of Death and of God, and was surprised to find that she
had been wrong about both.
"I thought--He never gave you--anesthetics--" she told herself. "Why,
that's what death is--"
Then came the clear vision of God--not the Great Being with devastating
feet at all: He seemed to be like the surgeon in Sydney, for a moment,
very sure of His work, very strong, very much stronger and wiser than
she was. It was no use at all to fight a thing so wise and strong and
tender--
At that moment, as this most beautiful, most kindly thing came to her,
she wanted to tell Kraill about it, so that he should be filled with the
beauty of it without having to come to death to find it out.
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