“Why do you cry, Warthrop?” I asked in a harsh voice. “Do you think your tears will bring me back?” And the thing in me, unwinding. His gift to me, his curse. “What do you desire? Will Henry is gone; he is no more. You must harden yourself to that fact.” His lips drew back. It was not a smile; it was a mockery of a smile. “I have. Why haven’t you?” We regarded each other across the vast space that separated us. Himself in me. And me in him. In the gloom, he might have passed as a victim of one of his horrid specimens—the death-leer grin, the wide, unblinking eyes, the pale, wasted flesh. In a
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