At least, I frustrated her design in calling upon him this morning. And I have wanted to so very much. “Let us go to that little place at the back of the Palace. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. “I am sure of it. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. 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.
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