She waited through all the morning hours, fearing for him, fearing for herself also; conscious at last of the wrong by which a woman's heart can be most deeply wounded. Her faithful servants had told her something; the rest she could guess. She was very ill, and did not know it. She knew only that she was angry--selfishly angry, because of the pain given her--cruel, probing, sickening pain. Midday came as she sat thinking how she could say least selfishly what it was now her duty to say,--the first words of reproach that would ever have passed her lips. Then her heart leaped with a shock that made everything blur and swim before her sight in a whirl of dizziness--because there was a sound of kuruma-wheels and the voice of a servant calling: "Honorable-return-is!" She struggled to the entrance to meet him, all her slender body a-tremble with fever and pain, and terror of betraying that pain. And the man was startled, because instead of greeting him with the accustomed smile, she caught the bosom of his silk robe in one quivering little hand--and looked into his face with eyes that seemed to search for some shred of a soul--and tried to speak, but could utter only the single word, "Anata?"[10] Almost in the same moment her weak grasp loosened, her eyes closed with a strange smile; and even before he could put out his arms to support her, she fell. He sought to lift her. But something in the delicate life had snapped. She was dead. [10] "Thou?" There were astonishments, of course, and tears, and useless callings of her name, and much running for doctors. But she lay white and still and beautiful, all the pain and anger gone out of her face, and smiling as on her bridal day. Two physicians came from the public hospital--Japanese military surgeons. They asked straight, hard questions--questions that cut open the self of the man down to the core. Then they told him truth cold and sharp as edged steel--and left him with his dead.