How beautiful she would look when she was dead! I started as the thought came into my mind.

How superficial was my acquaintance with her, poor girl,--how little was she a part of my life, since I could really so heartlessly think of her beauty when her breath should be gone! Of course, though, it was natural enough, why should I feel any personal pang for her?
It was odd that I should even expect to--I, who never felt a "personal pang" of regret for the death of any human creature, excepting poor dear old Lucia, who brought me up, and sent me to school, and gave me roast chestnuts when I knew my lessons, in the streets of Rome, thirty years ago.

When she died, I was there; poor old soul, how fond she was of me! And I of her! I remember the tears I shed, though I was a bearded man even then.

How long is that?
Since she died, it must be ten years.
My thoughts wandered about among all sorts of _bric-a-brac_ memories.
Presently something brought me back to the present.

Why must this fair girl from the north die miserably here in India?
Ah yes! the eternal why.