" He laid an
arm round her, and kissed her again and again.
"You are my Harry!--living!--my own Harry?"
"Your own Harry, my darling. What else should I be?"
"Tell me then, what does it mean--that picture--that horrid
photograph?"
"That means nothing--nothing--a freak--a joke of the doctor's. What
could it mean?" He took it up. "Why, my dear, I am living--living and
well. What should this mean but a joke?"
He laid it on the table again, face downwards. But her eyes showed that
she was not satisfied. Men do not make jokes on death; it is a sorry
jest indeed to dress up a man in grave-clothes, and make a photograph
of him as of one dead.
"But you--you, my Iris; you are here--tell me how and why--and when,
and everything? Never mind that stupid picture: tell me."
"I got your letter, Harry," she replied.
"My letter?" he repeated. "Oh! my dear, you got my letter, and you saw
that your husband loved you still."
"I could not keep away from you, Harry, whatever had happened. I stayed
as long as I could. I thought about you day and night. And at last
I--I--I came back. Are you angry with me, Harry?"
"Angry? Good God! my dearest, angry?" He kissed her passionately--not
the less passionately that she had returned at a time so terrible.
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