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He never went shooting, he said it was not good for him to take a loaded gun in his hand. At night one of my children always slept in his room. "I am afraid of myself," he confessed to me. He was afraid of himself and of that quiet house, down there beside the brook. "I would love to sleep there under the perfumed herb-roots." A life wasted!
Every day, winter and summer, early in the morning, before anyone had risen, he walked out to the cemetery, to where Czipra lay "under the perfumed herb-roots:" spent some minutes there and then returned, bringing in summer a blade of living grass, in winter of dried grass from her grave.
"Here we are, dears, and yonder would we be," said John, digging herb-roots with his knife and chewing them in an abstraction of hunger, for we had been disturbed at a meal just begun to. I could see a man here and there between us and the lime-kiln we must pass on our way up Dunchuach. I confessed myself in as black a quandary as ever man experienced.
"But not there ... not there ..." he panted, breathing feverishly: "not into the eighth resting-place out yonder under the perfumed herb-roots. There let us lie in the dust one beside the other. Brick up that door. Good night." Then he closed his eyes and never opened them again. Before I could call Fanny to his side he was dead.
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