'In the blood,' he answered; 'when the mind and the known world is
drowned in darkness everything must go--there must be the deluge. Then
you find yourself a palpable body of darkness, a demon--'
'But why should I be a demon--?' she asked.
'"WOMAN WAILING FOR HER DEMON LOVER"--' he quoted--'why, I don't know.'
Hermione roused herself as from a death--annihilation.
'He is such a DREADFUL satanist, isn't he?' she drawled to Ursula, in a
queer resonant voice, that ended on a shrill little laugh of pure
ridicule. The two women were jeering at him, jeering him into
nothingness. The laugh of the shrill, triumphant female sounded from
Hermione, jeering him as if he were a neuter.
'No,' he said. 'You are the real devil who won't let life exist.'
She looked at him with a long, slow look, malevolent, supercilious.
'You know all about it, don't you?' she said, with slow, cold, cunning
mockery.
'Enough,' he replied, his face fixing fine and clear like steel. A
horrible despair, and at the same time a sense of release, liberation,
came over Hermione.
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