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All was much more livingly conscious of the great man gone than the proud little palace in the town, which so abounds with relics and memorials of him. His library, his study, his study table, with everything on it just as he left it when "Cadde la stanca mana" are there, and there is the death-chair facing the window, from which he gasped for "more light" at last.
A greater strength than hers had held him in the death-chair, and a greater strength than hers had choked life from the Inspector of Police! He drew slowly out of the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him. He found that the front door was as Kedsty had left it, unlocked. Close to that door he stood for a space, scarcely allowing himself to breathe.
All was much more livingly conscious of the great man gone than the proud little palace in the town, which so abounds with relics and memorials of him. His library, his study, his study table, with everything on it just as he left it when "Cadde la stanca mana" are there, and there is the death-chair facing the window, from which he gasped for "more light" at last.
A greater strength than hers had held him in the death-chair, and a greater strength than hers had choked life from the Inspector of Police! He drew slowly out of the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him. He found that the front door was as Kedsty had left it, unlocked. Close to that door he stood for a space, scarcely allowing himself to breathe.
That machine has about as much of the human element as a meat-chopper, as a steam- roller, as the death-chair at Sing Sing. Its mission is to crush, obliterate, destroy, and no considerations of civilization or chivalry or humanity will affect it.
I've come to see I've had to that the death-chair would have been better, with self-respect, than freedom to go and come, with the necessity to gag every one, every minute of the day, and every day in the year, and all the time, with lies. If that seems far-fetched to you " "No, it doesn't." "Well, if it did you'd see it wasn't, if you were in my place for a month.
It is a matter of record that in the twentieth century the universal form of capital punishment was execution by electricity. In every state-prison stood the "death-chair," the visible embodiment of the moral force which the wrong-doer had defied, and which, in the ensuing struggle, had proved too strong for him.
Who can put herself in the place of that despairing, hunted creature who knew that blood was on the hands with which she ate, and whose eyes were filled with visions of the death-chair? So great was her fatigue that long before she finished the meal her tired lids began to droop, her head to nod in spasmodic surrenders to an overpowering desire for sleep.
All was much more livingly conscious of the great man gone than the proud little palace in the town, which so abounds with relics and memorials of him. His library, his study, his study table, with everything on it just as he left it when "Cadde la stanca mana" are there, and there is the death-chair facing the window, from which he gasped for "more light" at last.
And to-day, if I should sit with him upon the death-chair, he would consume me as utterly as though I were the foulest-mouthed blasphemer in all Doom. What think ye, in all honesty, of the Shining One? Is he a god to be propitiated by sacrifice and offering, to be worshipped and adored supreme, almighty, everlasting?
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