Would not love see returning penitence afar off, and fall on its neck and kiss it?
That farewell kiss which resembles greeting, that last glance of love which becomes the sharpest pang of sorrow.
Kisses honeyed by oblivion.
Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.
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