"You mustn't talk like that--Simon," she said, in her deepest and most
caressing voice, using my name somewhat hesitatingly, for the first
time. "You mustn't. A miracle really has been performed. You've been
raised from the dead--like the man in the Gospel----"
"Yes," said I petulantly, "Lazarus. And does the Gospel tell us what
Lazarus really thought of the unwarrantable interference with his plans?
Of course he had to be polite--"
"Oh, don't!" cried, Lola, shocked. In a queer unenlightened way, she was
a religious woman.
"I'm sorry," said I, feeling ashamed of myself.
"If you knew how I have prayed God to make you well," she said. "If I
could have died for you, I would--gladly--gladly----"
"But I wanted to die, my dear Lola," I insisted, with the egotism of
the sick. "I object to this resuscitation. I say it is monstrous that
I should have to start a second lifetime at my age. It's all very
well when you begin at the age of half a minute--but when you begin at
eight-and-thirty years----"
"You have all the wisdom of eight-and-thirty years to start with.
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