She looked up at him, and a slight sinister smile contracted her white
face.
'Isn't it a FOOL!' she cried. 'Isn't it a sickening FOOL ?' The
vindictive mockery in her voice made his brain quiver. Glancing up at
him, into his eyes, she revealed again the mocking, white-cruel
recognition. There was a league between them, abhorrent to them both.
They were implicated with each other in abhorrent mysteries.
'How many scratches have you?' he asked, showing his hard forearm,
white and hard and torn in red gashes.
'How really vile!' she cried, flushing with a sinister vision. 'Mine is
nothing.'
She lifted her arm and showed a deep red score down the silken white
flesh.
'What a devil!' he exclaimed. But it was as if he had had knowledge of
her in the long red rent of her forearm, so silken and soft. He did not
want to touch her. He would have to make himself touch her,
deliberately. The long, shallow red rip seemed torn across his own
brain, tearing the surface of his ultimate consciousness, letting
through the forever unconscious, unthinkable red ether of the beyond,
the obscene beyond.
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