"Lucia! my Lucia!" The sweet face almost seemed to smile as I drew
the head to me, and a soft curl of hair fell upon my arm as I pushed
it round her neck and pressed her breast to mine. It came softly and
unresistingly, just so much as my arm pressed it, with terrible
compliance. The throat chilled through my arm to the bone, numbed
it.
I laid my other hand upon her neck, pushed it lower till it rested
above her heart, and enclosed one breast, nerveless, pulseless, and
cold, colder than any snow. Slowly it chilled through my fingers. I
smoothed one passive arm--how cold. Then my hand sought her waist,
and my arm leant upon her hip--as once in Paris--and here the
coldness held and froze me.
Through her silk skirt it penetrated; the damp, eternal coldness
pierced through my quivering, living arm; it seemed dividing my
veins like steel.
It was a dead woman that I clasped: a corpse. I strained my eyes
down upon her face, that seemed but asleep.
"Lucia?"
And the word was one frenzied, senseless question; and the sweet
mouth seemed to smile back, in its last eternal smile, my answer,--
"Yes, I am Lucia, and you possess me now."
Like a torrent dammed up for a moment, the flood of insensate,
impotent desire flowed again, raging through all my veins, and
engulfed me; my burning arms interlaced her, my weight pressed upon
her, my trembling lips, full of torturing flame, sought hers, met,
closed upon them in a frenzy of vain, fruitless longing and stayed--
frozen there.
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