His body was somewhere discarded.
"Why not?
Are you tired ?" "Yes, and it wears you out." He laughed shortly, realising.
"Yet you always make me like it," he said.
"I don't wish to," she said, very low.
"Not when you've gone too far, and you feel you can't bear it.

But your unconscious self always asks it of me.

And I suppose I want it." He went on, in his dead fashion: "If only you could want ME, and not want what I can reel off for you!" "I!" she cried bitterly--"I! Why, when would you let me take you ?" "Then it's my fault," he said, and, gathering himself together, he got up and began to talk trivialities.

He felt insubstantial.

In a vague way he hated her for it.