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XV
THE END
THE last time I saw Sönya alive was in the same
year (1890). She had come to say good-by to us
at Djursholm before she went to Nice. No
forebodings told us that this was to be the last farewell.
My husband, Sönya, and I had agreed to meet at
Genoa directly after Christmas, so we said but short
farewells. But the plan was not carried out, in
consequence of a misdirected telegram, which was intended
to meet us on our return to Italy. While Sönya and
her companion were waiting for us, we passed through
the town in which they were staying without knowing
they were there.
New-Year’s Day—which we had hoped to spend
together—was passed by Sönya and her friend in going
to the lovely marble dwelling of the dead at Genoa.
While there a sudden shadow flitted across Sönya’s
face, and she said, with prophetic emphasis: " One of
us will not survive this year, for we have spent its first
day in a burial-ground!"
A few weeks later Sönya was on her way back to
Stockholm. The voyage she so hated was this time
not only to be a trying, but also a fatal one.
With a heart wounded once more by the pain of
separation, feeling that the torture was almost killing
her, Sönya sat in the railway-carriage lost in despair.
These bitter-cold winter days differed so cruelly from
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