And his desire went after her, and the mere bodiless idea of her
became a torment to his body as it had been a joy to his soul.
He took up her shawl which lay there by the hearth and looked at it;
he stroked it, unfolded it, spread it out and looked at it again; he
held it to his face; its whiteness and its tender texture were as
flame to his sight and touch, the scarcely perceptible scent of it
pierced him like a delicate pain. He gathered it up again in a heap
and covered it with kisses. Then, because it made his longing for her
insupportable, he flung it back, that innocent little white shawl, as
if shaking off her touch and her presence.
He rose to his feet and ramped up and down the room savagely, like a
wild animal in a cage. With every thought of Lucia his torment
returned upon him. He tried to think of the whiteness and the beauty
of her soul, and he could think of nothing but the whiteness of her
face and the beauty of her bending body.
He sat down, stretched his arms on the table and laid his miserable
head upon them, all among the pages of the catalogue _raisonne_. He
had passed from his agony of desire to an agony of contrition. He felt
that the very vehemence of his longing was an affront to her white
unconsciousness Up till now he had not admitted that he was "in love"
with Lucia; he was indeed hardly aware of it. He imagined his feeling
for her to be something altogether immaterial and incorruptible.
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