She and Reardon were again one, and his love for them
both was stronger than any emotion of tenderness he had ever
known.
In the afternoon he again sat by the bedside. Every symptom of
the sufferer's condition pointed to an approaching end: a face
that had grown cadaverous, livid lips, breath drawn in hurrying
gasps. Harold despaired of another look of recognition. But as he
sat with his forehead resting on his hand Amy touched him;
Reardon had turned his face in their direction, and with a
conscious gaze.
'I shall never go with you to Greece,' he said distinctly.
There was silence again. Biffen did not move his eyes from the
deathly mask; in a minute or two he saw a smile soften its
lineaments, and Reardon again spoke:
'How often you and I have quoted it!--"We are such stuff as
dreams are made on, and our--"'
The remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort
of utterance had exhausted him, his eyes closed, and he sank into
lethargy.
When he came down from his bedroom on the following morning,
Biffen was informed that his friend had died between two and
three o'clock.
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