And yet she was
fascinated. Her impulse was to repel him violently, break from this
spell of mocking brutishness. But she was too fascinated, she wanted to
submit, she wanted to know. What would he do to her?
He was so attractive, and so repulsive at one. The sardonic
suggestivity that flickered over his face and looked from his narrowed
eyes, made her want to hide, to hide herself away from him and watch
him from somewhere unseen.
'Why are you like this?' she demanded again, rousing against him with
sudden force and animosity.
The flickering fires in his eyes concentrated as he looked into her
eyes. Then the lids drooped with a faint motion of satiric contempt.
Then they rose again to the same remorseless suggestivity. And she gave
way, he might do as he would. His licentiousness was repulsively
attractive. But he was self-responsible, she would see what it was.
They might do as they liked--this she realised as she went to sleep.
How could anything that gave one satisfaction be excluded? What was
degrading? Who cared? Degrading things were real, with a different
reality.
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