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I questioned him no more. Presently I thought he was beginning
again. He broke out in an argumentative monotone:
"But why should it be? If, indeed, this battle, this
slaughter and stress is life, why have we this craving for pleasure
and beauty? If there is no refuge, if there is no place of peace,
and if all our dreams of quiet places are a folly and a snare, why
have we such dreams? Surely it was no ignoble cravings, no base
intentions, had brought us to this; it was Love had isolated us.
Love had come to me with her eyes and robed in her beauty, more
glorious than all else in life, in the very shape and colour of
life, and summoned me away. I had silenced all the voices, I had
answered all the questions--I had come to her. And suddenly there
was nothing but War and Death!"
I had an inspiration. "After all," I said, "it could have
been only a dream."
"A dream!" he cried, flaming upon me, "a dream--when, even
now--"
For the first time he became animated. A faint flush crept
into his cheek. He raised his open hand and clenched it, and
dropped it to his knee. He spoke, looking away from me, and for
all the rest of the time he looked away. "We are but phantoms!" he
said, "and the phantoms of phantoms, desires like cloud-shadows and
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