It seemed to him that he could not exist without her.

He could not tell himself what he was to do without her on the morrow, how he was to survive the days following.

At moments he was transported by a rage against her, which approached madness.

He wanted to have her, to beat her, to drag her by the hair to the cubiculum, and gloat over her; then, again, he was carried away by a terrible yearning for her voice, her form, her eyes, and he felt that he would be ready to lie at her feet.

He called to her, gnawed his fingers, clasped his head with his hands.