nd she submitted to him as if he had extended his dark
nature over her. She knew nothing about him. She lived mindlessly
within his presence, quivering within his influence, as if his blood
beat in her. She _knew_ she was subjected. One tiny corner of her
knew, and watched.

He was very happy, and his face had a real beauty. His eyes glowed with
lustrous secrecy, like the eyes of some victorious, happy wild creature
seen remote under a bush. And he was very good to her. His tenderness
made her quiver into a swoon of complete self-forgetfulness, as if the
flood-gates of her depths opened. The depth of his warm, mindless,
enveloping love was immeasurable. She felt she could sink forever into
his warm, pulsating embrace.

Afterwards, later on, when she was inclined to criticize him, she
would remember the moment when she saw his face at the Italian
Consulate in London. There were many people at the Consulate,
clamouring for passports--a wild and ill-regulated crowd. They had
waited their turn and got inside--Ciccio was not good at pushing his
way. And inside a courteous tall old man with a white beard had
lifted the flap for Alvina to go inside the office and sit down to
fill in the form. She thanked the old man, who bowed as if he had a
reputation to keep up.

Ciccio followed, and it was he who had to sit down and fill up the
form, because she did not understand the Italian questions. She
stood at his side, watching the excited, laughing, noisy, east-end
Italians at the desk. The whole place had a certain free-and-easy
confusion, a human, unofficial, muddling liveliness which was not
quite like England, even though it was in the middle of London.

"What was your mother's name?" Ciccio was asking her. She turned to
him. He sat with the pen perched flourishingly at the end of his
fingers, suspended in the serious and artistic business of filling in a
form. And his face had a dark luminousness, like a dark transparence
which was shut and has now expanded. She quivered, as if it was more
than she could bear. For his face was open like a flower right to
the depths of his soul, a dark, lovely translucency, vulnerable to
the deep quick of his soul. The lovely, rich darkness of his southern
nature, so different from her own, exposing itself now in its passional
vulnerability, made her go white with a kind of fear. For an instant,
her face seemed drawn and old as she looked down at him, answering his
questions. Then her eyes