One of the cases in Jonathan's museum was now burst open, and a rope taken from it. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best.
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