But it's all gone long ago. It was like being hungry.
Only very fine hungry. Exquisite hungry. . . . And then being
disgusted. . . ."
"He is in love with you."
"What is love?" said Anna. "He is grateful. He is by nature
grateful." She smiled a smile, like the smile of a pale Madonna who
looks down on her bambino.
"And you love nothing?"
"I love Russia--and being alone, being completely alone. When I am
dead perhaps I shall be alone. Not even my own body will touch me
then."
Then she added, "But I shall be sorry when he goes."
Afterwards Benham talked to Prothero alone. "Your Anna," he said,
"is rather wonderful. At first, I tell you now frankly I did not
like her very much, I thought she looked 'used,' she drank vodka at
lunch, she was gay, uneasily; she seemed a sham thing. All that was
prejudice. She thinks; she's generous, she's fine."
"She's tragic," said Prothero as though it was the same thing.
He spoke as though he noted an objection. His next remark confirmed
this impression. "That's why I can't take her back to Cambridge,"
he said.
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