He clenched his fists.
And he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked arm, watching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watching the breasts under the green stuff, the curve of her limbs in the tight dress.

Something in him hated her again for submitting him to this torture of nearness.

And he loved her as she balanced her head and stared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if she yielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her.

She could not help herself; she was in the grip of something bigger than herself.
A kind of eternal look about her, as if she were a wistful sphinx, made it necessary for him to kiss her.

He dropped his programme, and crouched down on the floor to get it, so that he could kiss her hand and wrist.
Her beauty was a torture to him.