suffocating for thirst.

"What shall it be?"

"And--they?"

"You will be with them. It will be enough for them to have a
mother. I cannot remain."

"And I? Can I?"

I know that she did not stir from her place, but I felt distinctly
that she was going away, that she was far--far away. I began to feel
so cold, I stretched out my hands--but she pushed them aside.

"People have such a holiday once in a hundred years, and you want to
deprive me of it. Why?" she said.

"But they may kill you there. And our children will perish."

"Life will be merciful to me. But even if they should perish--"

And this was said by her, my wife--a woman with whom I had lived for
ten years. But yesterday she had known nothing except our children,
and had been filled with fear for them; but yesterday she had caught
with terror the stern symptoms of the future. What had come over
her? Yesterday--but I, too, forgot everything that was yesterday.

"Do you want to go with me?"