William Blake The Resurrection painting

William Blake The Resurrection paintingWilliam Blake Nebuchadnezzar paintingWilliam Blake Los painting
them then. But I never got a proper chance. So here they are.” And then, as I hesitated, with rising voice, “Don’t you see I’d much rather give you cigars than have a new hat? Don’t you see I shall go back to Aldershot absolutely miserable, the whole time in London quite spoilt, if you won’t take them?”
She had clearly been crying that morning and was near tears again.
“Of course I’ll take them,” I said. “I think it’s perfectly sweet of you.”
Her face cleared in sudden, infectious joy.
“There. Now we can say good-bye.”
She stood waiting for me, not petitioning this time, but claiming her right. I put my hands on her shoulders and gave her a single, warm kiss on the lips. She shut her eyes and sighed. “Thank you,” she said in a small voice, and hurried out to her waiting taxi, leaving the box of cigars on my table.
Sweet Julia! I thought; it was a supremely unselfish present; something quite impersonal and unsentimental—no keepsake—something which would be gone, literally in smoke