Ah, it was terrible, and perfect. Under this bridge, the
colliers pressed their lovers to their breast. And now, under the
bridge, the master of them all pressed her to himself? And how much
more powerful and terrible was his embrace than theirs, how much more
concentrated and supreme his love was, than theirs in the same sort!
She felt she would swoon, die, under the vibrating, inhuman tension of
his arms and his body--she would pass away. Then the unthinkable high
vibration slackened and became more undulating. He slackened and drew
her with him to stand with his back to the wall.
She was almost unconscious. So the colliers' lovers would stand with
their backs to the walls, holding their sweethearts and kissing them as
she was being kissed. Ah, but would their kisses be fine and powerful
as the kisses of the firm-mouthed master? Even the keen, short-cut
moustache--the colliers would not have that.
And the colliers' sweethearts would, like herself, hang their heads
back limp over their shoulder, and look out from the dark archway, at
the close patch of yellow lights on the unseen hill in the distance, or
at the vague form of trees, and at the buildings of the colliery
wood-yard, in the other direction.
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