Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. There is strength in you— misguided. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence.
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