It was hard
for him, too, to make any effort. The doctor had said so. And all the
time, she fancied that his features became by degrees less mobile, and
that the transparent pallor so long familiar to her was turning to
another hue, grey and stony, which she had never seen.
Suddenly, while she was speaking of some indifferent thing, his eyelids
closed and twitched, and his hand went out towards hers, almost
spasmodically. She caught it and held it, bending far forward, and again
her heart stood still till she missed its beating.
"What is it?" she asked, staring into his face, and already half wild
with fear.
He could shake his head feebly, but for a moment he could not speak.
With one of her hands she still held his, and with the other she pressed
his brow. He smiled, as in a spasm, and then his face was a little
distorted. She felt his life slipping from her, under her very touch, as
though it were her fault because she would not hold it and keep it for
him.
"Gianluca!" she cried, repeating his name in an agonized tone.
"Gianluca! You must not die! I am here--"
He opened his eyes, and the faint smile came back, but without a spasm
this time.
"It was a little pain," he said. "I am sorry--it frightened you."
"Thank God!" she exclaimed, still bending over him. "Oh--I thought you
were gone!"
"Your voice--would bring me back--Veronica," he said, with many little
efforts, word by word, but with life in his face.
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