Yet... why hadn't he gone quietly away, early in the morning, before
Savina was up? He was appalled at the depths to which he had fallen,
the ignominious appearance that interrogated him from the pier-glass;
Lee saw himself in the light of a coward--a cheap, safe sensation-
maker. Nothing was more contemptible. Damn it to hell, what was he?
Where was he? Either he ought to go home or not, and the not carried
the fullest possible significance. But he didn't want to do one or the
other--he wanted Cytherea, or Savina, on some absurd impracticable
plane, and Fanny too. Why couldn't he go home when home was uppermost
in his thoughts and do something else when it wasn't? Did the fact that
Fanny might happen to want him annul all his liberty in living; or, in
place of that, were they, in spirit and body, one?
* * * * *
It was inevitable to the vacillating state of his being that, finding
Savina in an exceptionally engaging black dress with floating sleeves
of sheer lace and a string of rare pearls, he should forget all his
doubts in the pleasure of their intimacy. Even now, in response to his
gaze, her face lost its usual composure and became pinched, stricken,
with feeling. Lee Randon was possessed by a recklessness that hardened
him to everything but the present moment: such times were few in
existence, hours of vivid living which alone made the dull weight of
years supportable.
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