It is mad, what I do. But I must do something. I prop the dead man up again so that he lies comfortably, although he feels nothing any more. I close his eyes. They are brown, his hair is black and a bit curly at the sides.

The mouth is full and soft beneath his moustache; the nose is slightly arched, the skin brownish; it is now not so pale as it was before, when he was still alive. For a moment the face seems almost healthy;⁠—then it collapses suddenly into the strange face of the dead that I have so often seen, strange faces, all alike.

No doubt his wife still thinks of him; she does not know what happened. He looks as if he would have often written to her;⁠—she will still be getting mail from him⁠—Tomorrow, in a week’s time⁠—perhaps even a stray letter a month hence. She will read it, and in it he will be speaking to her.