The images he had summoned gave him no pleasure.They were secret and inflaming but her image was not entangled by them. That was not the way to think of her. It was not even the way in which he thought of her. Could his mind then not trust itself? Old phrases,sweet only with a disinterred sweetness like the figseeds Cranly rooted out of his gleaming teeth.
It was not thought nor vision though he knew vaguely that her figure was passing homeward through the city. Vaguely first and then more sharply he smelt her body. A conscious unrest seethed in his blood. Yes,it was her body he smelt, a wild and languid smell,the tepid limbs over which his music had flowed desirously and the secret soft linen upon which her flesh distilled odour and a dew.