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Freeman, R. Austin (Richard Austin), 1862-1943

"The Vanishing Man"

But, O God! what a
relief it is!" She caught her breath in one or two quick sobs and
pressed my hand passionately.
"It is over, dearest," I said. "It is gone for ever. Nothing remains but
the memory of your sorrow and your noble courage and patience."
"I can't realise it yet," she murmured. "It has been like a frightful,
interminable dream."
"Let us put it away," said I, "and think only of the happy life that is
opening."
She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her breath, now and again,
told of the long agony that she had endured with such heroic calm.
We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence with our soft
foot-falls, through the wide doorway into the second room. The vague
shapes of the mummy-cases standing erect in the wall-cases, loomed out
dim and gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with the memories
of untold centuries locked in their shadowy breasts. They were an
awesome company. Reverend survivors from a vanished world, they looked
out from the gloom of their abiding-place, but with no shade of menace
or of malice in their silent presence; rather with a solemn benison on
the fleeting creatures of to-day.


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