After Domini had spoken
Androvsky moved a step towards her, looked at her, then moved back and
dropped his eyes. If he had gone on looking at her he knew he could not
have begun to speak.
"Domini," he said, "I'm not going to try and excuse myself for what
I have done. I'm not going to say to you what I daren't say to
God--'Forgive me.' How can such a thing be forgiven? That's part of the
torture I've been enduring, the knowledge of the unforgivable nature of
my act. It can never be wiped out. It's black on my judgment book for
ever. But I wonder if you can understand--oh, I want you to understand,
Domini, what has made the thing I am, a renegade, a breaker of oaths,
a liar to God and you. It was the passion of life that burst up in me
after years of tranquillity. It was the waking of my nature after years
of sleep. And you--you do understand the passion of life that's in some
of us like a monster that must rule, must have its way. Even you in your
purity and goodness--you have it, that desperate wish to live really and
fully, as we have lived, Domini, together. For we have lived out in the
desert.
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