Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through. Wood,—"he'll never mend. ” “Why do you think so?” she asked. "Spring!—I never knew any. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. ” “This,” Anna declared, as she sipped her wine and looked around her, “reminds me more of Paris than any place I have yet seen. You came to me, you wished me to speak to Anna. Oh dear!—oh dear! Be careful of him," she added to her husband, "and get it over quickly, or never expect to see me again. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth.
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