So at last he was given again, warm and flexible. He turned and
gathered her in his arms. And feeling her soft against him, so
perfectly and wondrously soft and recipient, his arms tightened on her.
She was as if crushed, powerless in him. His brain seemed hard and
invincible now like a jewel, there was no resisting him.
His passion was awful to her, tense and ghastly, and impersonal, like a
destruction, ultimate. She felt it would kill her. She was being
killed.
'My God, my God,' she cried, in anguish, in his embrace, feeling her
life being killed within her. And when he was kissing her, soothing
her, her breath came slowly, as if she were really spent, dying.
'Shall I die, shall I die?' she repeated to herself.
And in the night, and in him, there was no answer to the question.
And yet, next day, the fragment of her which was not destroyed remained
intact and hostile, she did not go away, she remained to finish the
holiday, admitting nothing. He scarcely ever left her alone, but
followed her like a shadow, he was like a doom upon her, a continual
'thou shalt,' 'thou shalt not.
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