But that alone would not have
taken him to her.
A simple desire on his part, naive like a daisy, could not have
overthrown the structure of his being. Yet the connection between the
two, the woman and the event, was undeniable, his impulse to go to her
now irresistible. That last word, as fully as any, expressed what
lately had happened to him. He was considering the occurrences
logically while the fact was that logic hadn't been touched on,
summoned, once. He had moved emotionally and not intellectually; he
hadn't known, from hour to hour, in what direction he would proceed.
Certainly nothing could be said in his defense on the score of common
sense; that, though, didn't disturb him; at a time when he might have
been said to rely on it, common sense had failed him utterly. He had
thrown that over his shoulder. Nor was he searching for an exterior
justification of his present anomalous position, for, briefly, an
excuse; excuses were the furthest of all things from his mind. The
truth was that he was decidedly exhilarated, as though he had left the
hard narrow road for a gallop over the green. He was merely dwelling
on, analyzing, the present as it was becoming the newly promising, the
opening, future.
But he did need to understand--for an attitude, a choice of speech, if
nothing else--his feeling for Savina. It consisted principally in the
tyrannical desire to be with her, to sink in the immeasurable depths of
her passion, and there lose all consciousness of the trivial mundane
world.
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