There is a
lot of talk about it, but, all the while, people detest it. They are
always wearing dresses and pretentions they can't afford to have
mussed. It--I am still talking of love, Lee darling--breaks up their
silly society and morals ... like a strong light thrown on something
shabby."
Once more he had the feeling that, before the actuality of Savina's
tragic necessity, his own speculations were merely visionary,
immaterial; yet he tried to put them into words, to explain, so far as
he was able, what it was in him that was hers. But he did this
omitting, perhaps, the foundation of all that he was trying to say--he
didn't speak of Cytherea. He avoided putting the doll into words
because he could think of none that would make his meaning, his
attachment, clear. Lee couldn't, very well, across the remnants of
dinner, admit to Savina that a doll bought out of a confectioner's
window on Fifth Avenue so deeply influenced him. He hadn't lost
Cytherea in Savina so much as, vitalized, he had found her. And, while
he had surrendered completely to the woman and emotion, at the same
time the immaterial aspect of his search, if he could so concretely
define it, persisted. The difference between Savina and himself was
this: while she was immersed, obliterated, satisfied, in her passion, a
part of him, however small, stayed aside. It didn't control him, but
simply went along, like a diminutive and wondering child he had by the
hand.
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