To Thyrsis this thing was like some bird of prey that circled in the sky just above him—its shadow filling him with a continual fear, the swish of its wings making him cringe. He was never happy about it; there was no time in his life when he was not in a state of inward war. His intellect rebelled; and on the other hand, there was a part of his nature that craved this s*x-experience and welcomed it—and this part, it seemed, was favored by all the circumstances of life. There was no chance to settle thematter in the light of reason, to test it by any moral or aesthetic law; blind fate decreed that one part of him should have the shaping of his character, the determining of his needs.
He tried to make clear to himself the basis of his distrust. s****l i*********e as a habit—this was the fo
