I observe him wonderingly, as one looks at one’s image in a mirror. As he leaves us I think: When he gets home he will be regretting not having done this or that. He will think he has not pleased me; he will blush to think of the books which fell on us when we lay together (the horror of something going wrong, the discomfort). He will be wishing he had said this or that. He will forget that he did please me by observing I looked beautiful after our lovemaking (why, but I did look transfigured although I had felt nothing). He may regret that I offered him the opportunity to be honest and that
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