He waited a long time. He felt shaken. If I take her again she will die.
He did not believe it. He went toward her with a nausea of relief. "Die" was the word of a song. It was the strange music of passion that said die.
He waited by the bed. He wanted her to tell him to go away. He could feel her still and looking at him.
When he knelt by the bed and reached his arms around her he wanted her to evade him.
"Winnie?" She trembled when he touched her. He wanted her to speak. But she was quiet.
She let him kiss her mouth.
Death. His understanding could not hold the vagueness of the strange escaping word. He felt her thinning from his grasp. His veins swelled with death.
Then he became the death-giver, glad, in spite of himself, of the drunkenness of moving with the unseen. Through the banality of sex which oppressed him, there pushed the will of an exalted and passionate horror.
He took her. They were dead.