Her cheek rested upon his shoulder, he felt the warmth of her arm through her white, fur-lined dressing-gown.
"Why do you doubt any longer then," he asked hoarsely, "that I am your husband ?" She sighed.
"Ah, but I know you are not," she answered.

"Is it wrong of me to feel what I do for you, I wonder?
You are so like yet so unlike him.

He is dead.

He died in Africa.

Isn't it strange that I should know it?
But I do!" "But who am I then ?" he whispered.
She looked at him pitifully.
"I do not know," she confessed, "but you are kind to me, and when I feel you are near I am happy.