Prisoners: Fast Bound In Misery And Iron. Mary Cholmondeley
A belated compunction seized her.
"I wish I had been a better wife to you, Andrea," she said brokenly, laying her hand on his.
He made the ghost of a courteous, deprecating gesture, and raised her hand to his lips. The effort exhausted him. He closed his eyes and his hand fell out of hers.
Through the open window came a sudden waft of hot carnations, a long drawn breath of the rapturous Italian spring.
It reached the duke. He stirred slightly, and opened his eyes once more. Once more they fell on Fay, and it seemed to her as if with the last touch of his cold lips upon her hand their relation of husband and wife had ceased. Even at that moment she realised with a sinking sense of impotence how slight her hold on him from first to last had been. Clearly he had already forgotten it, passed beyond it, would never remember it again.
"It is spring," he said, looking full at her with tender fixity, and for a moment she thought his mind was wandering. "Spring once more. The sun shines. He does not see them, the spring and the sunshine. Since a year he does not see them. Francesca, how much longer will you keep your cousin Michael in prison?"
And thereupon the duke closed his eyes on this world, and went upon his way.
CHAPTER VII
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