"But, Linda!" The Savage spoke imploringly, "Don't you know me?" He had tried so hard, had done his very best; why woudn't she allow him to forget? He squeezed her limp hand almost with violence, as though he would force her to come back from this dream of ignoble pleasures, from these base and hateful memories-back into the present, back into reality: the appalling present, the awful reality-but sublime, but significant, but desperately important precisely because of the immience of that which made them so fearful. "Don't you know me, Linda?" He felt the faint answering pressure of her hand. The tears started into his eyes. He bent over her and kissed her.