His short, keen hair was ruffled.
He was so beautifully blond, like wheat. He pulled off his overcoat.
Quickly he pulled off his jacket, pulled loose his black tie, and was
unfastening his studs, which were headed each with a pearl. She
listened, watching, hoping no one would hear the starched linen
crackle. It seemed to snap like pistol shots.
He had come for vindication. She let him hold her in his arms, clasp
her close against him. He found in her an infinite relief. Into her he
poured all his pent-up darkness and corrosive death, and he was whole
again. It was wonderful, marvellous, it was a miracle. This was the
everrecurrent miracle of his life, at the knowledge of which he was
lost in an ecstasy of relief and wonder. And she, subject, received him
as a vessel filled with his bitter potion of death. She had no power at
this crisis to resist. The terrible frictional violence of death filled
her, and she received it in an ecstasy of subjection, in throes of
acute, violent sensation.
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