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He no longer had enough strength, energy, nor hope. He felt himself falling forward.
Clare, my dearest wife. I will survive this for you, CLARE!
He felt weak, but all he could think about was Clare. So with determination he was going to survive his conflict.
He thought of Clare--just a wordless, yearning thought--and then drew his arm back just a bit more, fist so tight his fingers pained him, and knowing he was going to do it. Then with full power, with every last scrap of strength he could bring to bear, he shot his arm forward toward the glass
He simply turned to his desk, pulled the crumpled yellow sheet from his pocket, and laid it down where it had been, smoothing it out; then he absently laid a pencil across it to weight it down.
Yes I made it, just going to put the paper under this pencil so it wont happen again.
There he got out his topcoat and hat and, without waiting to put them on, opened the front door and stepped out, to go find his wife.
I will catch up with Clare.
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