"I believe that everything my imagination has dreamed lies latent in your personality."
"You are mistaken."
"I believe," I continued, "that you enjoy having a man wholly in your power, torturing him—"
"No, no," she exclaimed quickly, "or perhaps—." She pondered.
"I don't understand myself any longer," she continued, "but I have a confession to make to you. You have corrupted my imagination and inflamed my blood. I am beginning to like the things you speak of. The enthusiasm with which you speak of a Pompadour, a Catherine the Second, and all the other selfish, frivolous, cruel women, carries me away and takes hold of my soul. It urges me on to become like those women, who in spite of their vileness were slavishly adored during their lifetime and still exert a miraculous power from thei
