The by-product in the corner of the studio gathered arms and legs into a series of acute angles, and writhed; a lady ornamented with cheek-bones well sketched in, covered her eyes with one hand as though locked in jiu-jitsu with Richard Strauss.
Aphrodite’s slender fingers, barely resting on the harp-strings, suddenly contracted in a nervous tremor; a low twang echoed the involuntary reflex with a discord.
Aphrodite’s slender fingers, barely resting on the harp-strings,
suddenly contracted in a nervous tremor.
A young man, whose neck was swathed in a stock à la d’Orsay, bent close to her shoulder.
“I feel that our souls, blindfolded, are groping toward one another,” he whispered.
“Don’t—don’t talk like that!” she breathed almost fiercely; “I am tired—suffocated with sound, drugged with joss-sticks and sandal. I can’t stand much more, I warn you.”
“Are you not well, beloved.”
“Perfectly well—physically. I don’t know what it is—it has come so suddenly—this overwhelming revulsion—this exasperation with scents and sounds.... I could rip out these harp-strings and—and kick that chair
over! I—I think I need something—sunlight and the wind blowing my hair loose——”