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himself out of breath, but Dona Rita muttering; "Too late, too

late," got her hands away from my grip and slipping altogether out



of her fur coat seized some garment lying on a chair near by (I

think it was her skirt), with the intention of dressing herself, I



imagine, and rushing out of the house. Determined to prevent this,

but indeed without thinking very much what I was doing, I got hold



of her arm. That struggle was silent, too; but I used the least

force possible and she managed to give me an unexpected push.



Stepping back to save myself from falling I overturned the little

table, bearing the six-branched candlestick. It hit the floor,



rebounded with a dull ring on the carpet, and by the time it came

to a rest every single candle was out. He on the other side of the



door naturally heard the noise and greeted it with a triumphant

screech: "Aha! I've managed to wake you up," the very savagery of



which had a laughable effect. I felt the weight of Dona Rita grow

on my arm and thought it best to let her sink on the floor, wishing



to be free in my movements and really afraid that now he had

actually heard a noise he would infallibly burst the door. But he



didn't even thump it. He seemed to have exhausted himself in that

scream. There was no other light in the room but the darkened glow



of the embers and I could hardly make out amongst the shadows of

furniture Dona Rita sunk on her knees in a penitential and



despairing attitude. Before this collapse I, who had been

wrestling desperately with her a moment before, felt that I dare



not touch her. This emotion, too, I could not understand; this

abandonment of herself, this conscience-stricken humility. A



humbly imploring request to open the door came from the other side.

Ortega kept on repeating: "Open the door, open the door," in such



an amazingvariety of intonations, imperative, whining, persuasive,

insinuating, and even unexpectedly" target="_blank" title="ad.意外地;突然地">unexpectedly jocose, that I really stood



there smiling to myself, yet with a gloomy and uneasy heart. Then

he remarked, parenthetically as it were, "Oh, you know how to



torment a man, you brown-skinned, lean, grinning, dishevelled imp,

you. And mark," he expounded further, in a curiously doctoral tone



- "you are in all your limbs hateful: your eyes are hateful and

your mouth is hateful, and your hair is hateful, and your body is



cold and vicious like a snake - and altogether you are perdition."

This statement was astonishingly deliberate. He drew a moaning



breath after it and uttered in a heart-rending tone, "You know,

Rita, that I cannot live without you. I haven't lived. I am not



living now. This isn't life. Come, Rita, you can't take a boy's

soul away and then let him grow up and go about the world, poor



devil, while you go amongst the rich from one pair of arms to

another, showing all your best tricks. But I will forgive you if



you only open the door," he ended in an inflated tone: "You

remember how you swore time after time to be my wife. You are more



fit to be Satan's wife but I don't mind. You shall be my wife!"

A sound near the floor made me bend down hastily with a stern:



"Don't laugh," for in his grotesque, almost burlesque discourses

there seemed to me to be truth, passion, and horror enough to move



a mountain.

Suddenly suspicion seized him out there. With perfectly farcical



unexpectedness he yelled shrilly: "Oh, you deceitful wretch! You

won't escape me! I will have you. . . ."



And in a manner of speaking he vanished. Of course I couldn't see

him but somehow that was the impression. I had hardly time to



receive it when crash! . . . he was already at the other door. I

suppose he thought that his prey was escaping him. His swiftness



was amazing, almost inconceivable, more like the effect of a trick

or of a mechanism. The thump on the door was awful as if he had



not been able to stop himself in time. The shock seemed enough to

stun an elephant. It was really funny. And after the crash there



was a moment of silence as if he were recovering himself. The next

thing was a low grunt, and at once he picked up the thread of his



fixed idea.

"You will have to be my wife. I have no shame. You swore you



would be and so you will have to be." Stifled low sounds made me

bend down again to the kneeling form, white in the flush of the



dark red glow. "For goodness' sake don't," I whispered down. She

was struggling with an appalling fit of merriment, repeating to



herself, "Yes, every day, for two months. Sixty times at least,




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