We were sitting on Wanda’s ottoman. She wore her ermine jacket, her
hair was loose and fell like a lion’s mane down her back. She clung
to my lips, drawing my soul from my body. My head whirled, my blood
began to seethe, my heart beat violently against hers.
“I want to be absolutely in your power, Wanda,” I exclaimed
suddenly, seized by that frenzy of passion when I can scarcely think
clearly or decide freely. “I want to put myself absolutely at your
mercy for good or evil without any condition, without any limit to
your power.”
While saying this I had slipped from the ottoman, and lay at her
feet looking up at her with drunken eyes.
“How beautiful you now are,” she exclaimed, “your eyes half-broken
in ecstacy fill me with joy, carry me away. How wonderful your look
would be if you were being beaten to death, in the extreme agony. You
have the eye of a martyr.”
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