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 Presently, in a weaker voice, she inquired, Where is the priest?

He's coming in a moment, dear. Try to be patient.

I've been patient so long. I've waited and waited. I've not been so very wicked, after all, Campaspe. All I wanted was a little happiness, just once, that's all, just once. It was so little to ask, and yet God wouldn't give it to me. Will he forgive me, Campaspe? Where is the priest?

Coming, coming, dear.

Suddenly the expression in the senile, worn-out features altered. Weary lassitude gave way to a grisly leer. How do I know, she pondered aloud, but that this may be God's kindness? Perhaps he has held it in reserve until now. The priest is coming. Perhaps he. ..

The Countess, with her sunken cheeks, her staring eyes, the balls covered with a film, her clutching claws, was very terrible now. Campaspe grasped the arms of her chair tightly.

Campaspe, my teeth! I must have my teeth!

Campaspe discovered them in a tumbler of water on the ledge of the wash-basin in the bathroom. She carried the plates to the bedside.

My teeth! Campaspe, quick! The priest is coming. My teeth! My teeth!

Campaspe adjusted the plates in the vacant jaw.

My make-up, Campaspe! My lipstick! My