anybody. And you, you were so loath to believe it that finally you shattered even my faith. Do I love you? I don’t know. When I see you there I could thrust a knife into my breast; I should like to die and I don’t know what else, but do I love you? I—I don’t know. And when you took me into your arms . . . for the last time I felt something . . . impure in me . . . and in you. Forgive my kisses; they were . . . unclean,” she breathed. “We must part.”
She was not looking at him and did not listen to what he said in reply. Suddenly her eyelashes began to tremble, and then her eyes filled with tears. She wept silently, her hands on the wheel. When he tried to approach her she moved the car away.
“Now you’re no longer Prokopokopak,” she whispered, “you are an unhappy, unhappy man. You see, you pull at your chain . . . as I do. It was . . . a wrong sort of link that joined us, and yet when one tears oneself away it is as if one left every-thing behind, one’s heart, one’s soul. . . . Can there be good in a man when he is so empty?” Her tears fell more quickly. “I loved you, and now I shall never see you again. Out of the way, I’m turning round.”
He did not move.
She drew the car close up to him. “Good-bye, Prokop,” she said softly, and began to go backwards along the road. He ran after her, but the car began to retire more and more rapidly.
Then it vanished altogether.
