Some instinct too deep for analysis, something in the very
heart of her nerves made her recoil, as if she were afraid, literally
scared of letting herself go, of loving--the subtlest instinct of
self-preservation against something fatal; against being led on
beyond--yes, it was like that curious, instinctive sinking which some
feel at the mere sight of a precipice, a dread of going near, lest they
should be drawn on and over by resistless attraction.
She passed into their bedroom and began slowly to undress. To go to bed
without knowing where he was, what doing, thinking, seemed already a
little odd; and she sat brushing her hair slowly with the silver-backed
brushes, staring at her own pale face, whose eyes looked so very large
and dark. At last there came to her the feeling: "I can't help it! I
don't care!" And, getting into bed, she turned out the light. It seemed
queer and lonely; there was no fire. And then, without more ado, she
slept.
She had a dream of being between Fiorsen and her father in a
railway-carriage out at sea, with the water rising higher and higher,
swishing and sighing. Awakening always, like a dog, to perfect presence
of mind, she knew that he was playing in the sitting-room, playing--at
what time of night? She lay listening to a quivering, gibbering tune
that she did not know. Should she be first to make it up, or should she
wait for him? Twice she half slipped out of bed, but both times, as if
fate meant her not to move, he chose that moment to swell out the sound,
and each time she thought: 'No, I can't.
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