I had loved Africa, but
Africa seemed to me terrible then. I thought of only Arabs, always
Arabs, walking above me on the surface of the ground when I was
buried. And the thought made me shudder with horror. As if it could
have mattered! I was absurd! But one is often absurd when one is very
ill. The child in one comes out then, I suppose. And I had wondered--
how I had wondered!--whether there was any chance of your coming. I
hadn't actually asked you to come. I hadn't dared to do that. But it
was the same thing almost. I had let you know--I had let you know. And
I saw you come into my room all covered with dust. You had come so
quickly--at once. Perhaps--perhaps sometimes you have thought I had
forgotten that evening. I may be an egoist. I expect most men are
egoists. And perhaps I am the egoist you say I am. Often one doesn't
know what one is. But I have never forgotten that day, and that you
were covered with dust. It was that--the dust--which seemed to make me
realize that you had not lost a moment as to whether you would come or
not.
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