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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
274
But
by
removal
of
one
load
her
soul
was
but
bared
for
a
more
grievous
other.
Her
memory
harked
back
to
what
had
preceded
the
crisis.
She
recalled
those
moments
of
doomed
rapture
in
which
her
heart
had
soared
up
to
the
apocalyptic
window--recalled
how,
all
the
while
she
was
speaking
to
the
man
there,
she
had
been
chafed
by
the
inadequacy
of
language.
Oh,
how
much
more
she
had
meant
than
she
could
express!
Oh,
the
ecstasy
of
that
self-surrender!
And
the
brevity
of
it!
the
sudden
odious
awakening!
Thrice
in
this
Oxford
she
had
been
duped.
Thrice
all
that
was
fine
and
sweet
in
her
had
leapt
forth,
only
to
be
scourged
back
into
hiding.
Poor
heart
inhibited!
She
gazed
about
her.
The
stone
alley
she
had
come
into,
the
terrible
shut
gate,
were
for
her
a
visible
symbol
of
the
destiny
she
had
to
put
up
with.
Wringing
her
hands,
she
hastened
along
the
way
she
had
come.
She
vowed
she
would
never
again
set
foot
in
Oxford.
She
wished
herself
out
of
the
hateful
little
city
to-night.
She
even
wished
herself
dead.
She
deserved
to
suffer,
you
say?
Maybe.
I
merely
state
that
she
did
suffer.
Emerging
into
Catherine
Street,
she
knew
whereabouts
she
was,
and
made
straight
for
Judas,
turning
away
her
eyes
as
she
skirted
the
Broad,
that
place
of
mocked
hopes
and
shattered
ideals.
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