” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. And what did she do? Not only did she cut his hand in her rage, but she refused to let him help her, and then she ran away from him. Out of all this we have struck a sort of harmony. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. His body went limp, and as he withdrew she ironically found herself at the doorway for the first time in her life of being truly aroused. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion.
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