gloat over herself. She comes with black wings and fluttering white hands; with a beggar's impudence, she opens out her mourning weeds and shows me her bosom; beneath her white transparent flesh, I can see her purple-coloured heart. And she points to it. It is misery that has stained it so deep a red, filling it with red fire; for there is not a single drop of blood in it any more.
And she strokes that heart with dainty relish, and smiles on me malignantly.
I—am suffering remorse!
To dififerentiate between good and evil is far from wise. This is why my ethical principles are of such primitive simplicity. All my culture exists only in my brain; what is emotional in me remains elemental and primitive, full of stupid sentiment and of scruples.
And therefore it is that I am so unlike other women, whose great characteristic is that their feelings are cultured.
At times, when I see him afar, standing out from amongst the crowd, splendid in shape and wonderful in beauty, I have a sense of pride that he is mine—my own! Neither a pet cat nor a dog, neither a parrot nor a
