Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. 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. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. ” “How?” “Well—a little clumsily. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. But probably not the truth. ‘Certainly I am not a nun.
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