And
yet, during this last moment in which he had felt that another, a fresh
personality was thus conjoined with his own, life had seemed, somehow,
more interesting.
It was in vain that he assured himself that this possible meeting at
Prevost's (the tension of waiting for which so ravished, stripped so bare
the intervening moments that he could find nothing, not one idea, not one
memory in his mind beneath which his troubled spirit might take shelter
and repose) would probably, after all, should it take place, be much the
same as all their meetings, of no great importance. As on every other
evening, once he was in Odette's company, once he had begun to cast
furtive glances at her changing countenance, and instantly to withdraw his
eyes lest she should read in them the first symbols of desire and believe
no more in his indifference, he would cease to be able even to think of
her, so busy would he be in the search for pretexts which would enable him
not to leave her immediately, and to assure himself, without betraying his
concern, that he would find her again, next evening, at the Verdurins';
pretexts, that is to say, which would enable him to prolong for the time
being, and to renew for one day more the disappointment, the torturing
deception that must always come to him with the vain presence of this
woman, whom he might approach, yet never dared embrace.
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