He was watching the unconsciousness come unto her swollen
face, watching the eyes roll back. How ugly she was! What a fulfilment,
what a satisfaction! How good this was, oh how good it was, what a
God-given gratification, at last! He was unconscious of her fighting
and struggling. The struggling was her reciprocal lustful passion in
this embrace, the more violent it became, the greater the frenzy of
delight, till the zenith was reached, the crisis, the struggle was
overborne, her movement became softer, appeased.
Loerke roused himself on the snow, too dazed and hurt to get up. Only
his eyes were conscious.
'Monsieur!' he said, in his thin, roused voice: 'Quand vous aurez
fini--'
A revulsion of contempt and disgust came over Gerald's soul. The
disgust went to the very bottom of him, a nausea. Ah, what was he
doing, to what depths was he letting himself go! As if he cared about
her enough to kill her, to have her life on his hands!
A weakness ran over his body, a terrible relaxing, a thaw, a decay of
strength.
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