IN MAREMMA.
179
endless, unutterable loss. It is separation, not sleep, that is death's image.
Her soul was dark and empty, like the spent lamp and the dry cup that he had need of no longer.
The light of the world burned now for him, and he could drink from the springs of the world's pleasure-places. He did not want these sad and humble things of hers. She rebelled no more than the earthen vessel and the bronze lamp rebelled because they lay untouched.
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