A certain peace,
an abstraction possessed his soul.
She went to his room, hotly, violently in love with him. He was so
beautiful and inaccessible. He kissed her, he was a lover to her. And
she had extreme pleasure of him. But he did not come to, he remained
remote and candid, unconscious. She wanted to speak to him. But this
innocent, beautiful state of unconsciousness that had come upon him
prevented her. She felt tormented and dark.
In the morning, however, he looked at her with a little aversion, some
horror and some hatred darkening into his eyes. She withdrew on to her
old ground. But still he would not gather himself together, against
her.
Loerke was waiting for her now. The little artist, isolated in his own
complete envelope, felt that here at last was a woman from whom he
could get something. He was uneasy all the while, waiting to talk with
her, subtly contriving to be near her. Her presence filled him with
keenness and excitement, he gravitated cunningly towards her, as if she
had some unseen force of attraction.
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