He could not go out to her.

Something struggled in him, but he could not get to her.

Why?
She loved him.

Clara said she even wanted him; then why couldn't he go to her, make love to her, kiss her?
Why, when she put her arm in his, timidly, as they walked, did he feel he would burst forth in brutality and recoil?
He owed himself to her; he wanted to belong to her.

Perhaps the recoil and the shrinking from her was love in its first fierce modesty.