“ No; I can only see where he was different from you.”
But he felt she had a grudge against him.
One evening, as they were coming home over the fields, she startled him by asking:
“ Do you think it’s worth it—the—the s*x part?”
“ The act of loving, itself?”
“ Yes; is it worth anything to you?”
“ But how can you separate it?” he said. “It’s the culmination of everything. All our intimacy culminates then.”
“ Not for me,” she said.
He was silent. A flash of hate for her came up. After all, she was dissatisfied with him, even there, where he thought they fulfilled each other. But he believed her too implicitly.
“ I feel,” she continued slowly, “as if I hadn’t got you, as if all of you weren’t there, and as if it weren’t me you were taking—”
“ Who, then?”
“ Something
