I
can even trace the veins. What does this mean?"
"I can't tell."
"You look very strange, Valentine. You are certain you see and feel
nothing?"
"Nothing whatever," Valentine forced himself to answer calmly.
"We'll see this through," said Julian with a sort of angry determination.
"I won't be frightened by a hand. We'll see it through. Out with the
light."
Valentine turned it off. The action was purely mechanical. He had to
perform it, whether he would or no.
"Don't speak," he whispered to Julian in the darkness. "Don't speak,
whatever happens, till I ask you to speak."
"Why?"
"Don't; don't!"
"All right."
They sat still.
And now the horror that had possessed Valentine so utterly began to
fade away, making its exit from his body and soul with infinitesimally
small steps. At length it had quite gone, and its place was taken by a
numb calm, level and still at first, then curiously definite, almost
too definite to be calm at all. Gradually this calm withdrew into
exhaustion, an exhaustion such as dwells incessantly with the anemic,
with those whose hearts beat feebly and whose vitality flickers low to
fading. That was like a delicious arrival of death, of death delicate
and serene, ivory white and pure, death desirable, grateful.
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