“It is an old horror that draws me toward harlots,” he said in a hollow voice. “Sometimes when I walked the streets penniless, sick with longing, utterly deserted, I gazed after them and envied the men who could go with them. It is an old feeling and springs from a deep source. I cannot get rid of it, least of all now that I err in the darkness and the ground is melting under my feet.” “You talk and talk,” said Johanna, and arose. “If I had learned to speak I could tell you what you ... do!” “I suffer in the flesh,” he answered, and his glance burned her. Twice she walked up and down the room. She hated her own tread, her own perceptions, and her own thoughts. She had so deep a longing for some human touch, some friendly, handsome, kindly word, that she would not admit even to herself how far it might lead her. She only had a dim vision of herself sitting in that rear room in Stolpische Street, waiting for Christian many hours, whole nights, it mattered not how long, but just to wait and to be there at his coming, to smile with her lips though her heart were weeping--she knew that condition so well--without explanation or confessions or complaints, as is the custom among well-bred people who settle their inner difficulties in silence and alone. Just to be there and nothing else, in order that the temperature of her heart might rise by a few degrees. But to plan or undertake or hope for anything from any source was so criminal, it seemed, and so stupid. An empty thing--like a hungry bird picking at painted grains of wheat. “You told me the other day that you weren’t able to pay your rent. Permit me to help you out.” She spoke in her frugal, pointed way, and with an angular gesture placed some money on the table. “Do not speak. Just this once, please do not speak.” He looked at her devouringly, and laughed with a jeer. She stood very cold and still. He kissed her. She endured it like one to whose throat a knife is put. XXVI When she arrived in Stolpische Street it was seven o’clock in the evening. Christian was not at home, and she waited. She lit the lamp, sat down beside the table, and did not move. After a while, since the chill of the unheated room penetrated through her cloak and even her frock, she got up and walked up and down. Sometimes she lightly touched the objects on the table--a notebook, or a dusty ink-well. She let down the shades, and saw the silly pictures with which they were adorned. As on that other occasion she heard the house. It was full of rumours and whispers, and oppressed her fatefully.