“Go on,” he said. “Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. From then on he was Ruth's dog. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. “I MUST speak to you,” he said.
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