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Wollstonecraft, Mary, 1759-1797

"Mary A Fiction"

My Mary, will you be comforted?
Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a
complete wretch! The words almost choked her.
He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At
last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up.
Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die
in her arms.
Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was
obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned
towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its
prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last
sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she
calmly cried.
The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the
hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from
an opened window discovered the pale face.
She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on
the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained
the body.


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