And he loved her as she balanced her head and
stared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if she
yielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her. She could
not help herself; she was in the grip of something bigger than herself.
A kind of eternal look about her, as if she were a wistful sphinx, made
it necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped his programme, and crouched
down on the floor to get it, so that he could kiss her hand and wrist.
Her beauty was a torture to him. She sat immobile. Only, when the lights
went down, she sank a little against him, and he caressed her hand and
arm with his fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the time
his blood kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed his
consciousness momentarily.
The drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going on somewhere;
he did not know where, but it seemed far away inside him. He was Clara's
white heavy arms, her throat, her moving bosom. That seemed to be
himself. Then away somewhere the play went on, and he was identified
with that also.
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