“Don't cry — don't cry,” he said, with an odd simplicity.

His heart was calm and numb with a sort of innocence of love, now.

She still sobbed, ignoring him, ignoring that he held her. His lips were dry.

“Don't cry, my love,” he said, in the same abstract way. In his breast his heart burned like a torch, with suffering. He could not bear the desolateness of her crying. He would have soothed her with his blood. He heard the church clock chime, as if it touched him, and he waited in suspense for it to have gone by. It was quiet again.

“My love,” he said to her, bending to touch her wet face with his mouth. He was afraid to touch her. How wet her face was!