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Their scent, as she smelled it, was so
much kinder than he; it almost made her cry.
"You wheedle the soul out of things," he said. "I would never
wheedle--at any rate, I'd go straight."
He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came from him
mechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon, firm and
hard against her.
"You're always begging things to love you," he said, "as if you were a
beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them--"
Rhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower with her mouth,
inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudder as it came to her
nostrils.
"You don't want to love--your eternal and abnormal craving is to be
loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as
if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage
somewhere."
She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had not the
faintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted,
tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayings
like sparks from electricity.


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