It required an effort for her to recede from the
comfortable habit of thought she had attained to the point of view from
which the aspirations of the soul had appeared of more importance than
the satisfactions of the body. Only for a few weeks in the spring did
she relapse periodically into such a condition of mind.
"Never," she answered.
"Did you never feel that you cared about anybody--in that way?"
"Never."
It was incredible! It was appalling! But it really had happened! Love,
which filled the world, was not the beginning and the end, as it ought
to be, of every mortal existence. Subtract it from the universe and
there was nothing left but a void, yet in this void, life seemed to
move and feed and have its being just as if it were really alive. People
indeed--even women--would go on, like Kesiah, for almost sixty years,
and not share, for an instant, the divine impulse of creation. They
could exist quite comfortably on three meals a day without ever
suspecting the terrible emptiness that there was inside of them.
They could even wring a stale satisfaction out of this imitation
existence--this play of make-believe being alive.
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