renders concrete even the most abstract of things.
Something is tearing my soul; it is the impossibility of any delusion about …
Ah, do not, do not bite thus at my throat! … I cannot weep! … And do not make the sharp-edged music of the violin soft by the dark velvet touch of your smooth hand! … And do not, do not press my bosom so; my heart will burst! … And do not hug my body with that tender embrace, that Lesbian caress! … Nor twine like ivy round my feet, uttering that awful moan for blighted joys! …
Witold, O Witold! behold, I return to you! O sleep, O life! Yes, I return. …
I have written the following short note to Witold to-day:
"If you wish, you may come. J. D."
It breathed the spite—the unavailing and very plebeian spite—of my humiliation. I fully recognized this: and yet I chose to send the note, thus styled.
I expected that he would come like a conqueror, triumphant and self-assured; and
