struck back into its old； accustomed； mild reality。 Gradually
she realized that the night was mon and ordinary； that the
great； blistering； transcendent night did not really exist。 She
was overe with slow horror。 Where was she？ What was this
nothingness she felt？ The nothingness was Skrebensky。 Was he
really there？……who was he？ He was silent； he was not there。
What had happened？ Had she been mad： what horrible thing had
possessed her？ She was filled with overpowering fear of herself；
overpowering desire that it should not be； that other burning；
corrosive self。 She was seized with a frenzied desire that what
had been should never be remembered； never be thought of； never
be for one moment allowed possible。 She denied it with all her
might。 With all her might she turned away from it。 She was good；
she was loving。 Her heart was warm； her blood was dark and warm
and soft。 She laid her hand caressively on Anton's shoulder。
〃Isn't it lovely？〃 she said； softly； coaxingly； caressingly。
And she began to caress him to life again。 For he was dead。 And
she intended that he should never know； never bee aware of
what had been。 She would bring him back from the dead without
leaving him one trace of fact to remember his annihilation
by。
She exerted all her ordinary； warm self； she touched him； she
did him homage of loving awareness。 An