Now, farewell!"
"Zenobia, whither are you going?" I asked.
"No matter where," said she. "But I am weary of this place, and sick
to death of playing at philanthropy and progress. Of all varieties
of mock-life, we have surely blundered into the very emptiest mockery
in our effort to establish the one true system. I have done with it;
and Blithedale must find another woman to superintend the laundry,
and you, Mr. Coverdale, another nurse to make your gruel, the next
time you fall ill. It was, indeed, a foolish dream! Yet it gave us
some pleasant summer days, and bright hopes, while they lasted. It
can do no more; nor will it avail us to shed tears over a broken
bubble. Here is my hand! Adieu!"
She gave me her hand with the same free, whole-souled gesture as on
the first afternoon of our acquaintance, and, being greatly moved, I
bethought me of no better method of expressing my deep sympathy than
to carry it to my lips. In so doing, I perceived that this white
hand--so hospitably warm when I first touched it, five months
since--was now cold as a veritable piece of snow.
"How very cold!" I exclaimed, holding it between both my own, with
the vain idea of warming it. "What can be the reason? It is really
deathlike!"
"The extremities die first, they say," answered Zenobia, laughing.
"And so you kiss this poor, despised, rejected hand! Well, my dear
friend, I thank you. You have reserved your homage for the fallen.
Lip of man will never touch my hand again.
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