“My beloved Laura” (said she to me a few Hours before she died) “take warning from my unhappy End and avoid the imprudent conduct which has occasioned it…Beware of fainting-fits… Though at the time they may be refreshing and Agreable yet believe me they will in the end, if too often repeated and at improper seasons, prove destructive to your Constitution…My fate will teach you this…I die a Martyr to my greif for the loss of Augustus….One fatal swoon has cost me my Life…Beware of swoons, Dear Laura…A frenzy fit is not one quarter so pernicious; it is an exercise to the Body and if not too violent, is I dare say conducive to Health in its consequences—Run mad as often as you chuse; but do not faint—”.
It was a dream, one of the dreams she had almost every night. Dreams in which she saw his face so clearly that she touched it in her sleep, and next day her fingers still remembered his skin. Even when he put his arms around her, carefully, as if he wasn’t sure whether he had forgotten how to hold her, she didn’t move—because her hands did not believe they would really feel him, her arms did not believe they could hold him again. But her eyes could see him. Her ears heard him breathing. Her skin felt his, as warm as if the fire were inside him, after he had been so terribly cold.