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The
MOMENT BEFORE
This story was written from the Play of ISRAEL ZANGWILL
hey say — the ones who know — that in the great moment of transition — the climacteric, ultimate, miraculous Moment Before— the varied panorama of our human life is lived again. Lived for the last— the toll-taking time in that brief instant of finality. May it not be, perhaps, a screen unfurled for the adjudging eyes of God? — a vision fresh before Him of our life's story? — a piteous story told again in that last
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breath when there is no amendment? — a thing held up to Him all stained with human passions and scarred with human wrongs? — a sorry manuscript, blurred with the gray tears of the spirit and awry with the yearnings of the heart? What He does with them we do not know.
But upon the dead, once passionate face of the sorry Duchess of Maldon there strayed, benignantly, the hand of a tender peace.
Lights of a gypsy camp, and the strange, guttural sounds, and the stranger, strong odors. Dirty, pic
turesque, evil-eyed girls and slenderhipped, indolent men. A scraggy herd of horses here and there, and the motley pitching of the tents, flaps drawn back to show barbaric interiors. Under it all the throb of lawless, ancient Romany blood — the sickly swamp of superstition and the laggard moorings of the nomad.
In one corner of the camp crouched Madge, the light o’ desire to every man in the tribe. She was watching two of them — the swarthiest, the most brutal, the most feared of them all — fight with their naked, raw-red hands for the possession of her — men who
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