I have conquered a man least conqureable. But I also know the limits of my power, and I know what it takes to answer the demands of him. He has loved me; I am his love. I have had all I could have of him, the most secret layers of his being, such words, such feelings, such looks, such caressess... I have felt him exultant in my love, passionate, possessive, jealous. I have grown on him, not bodily, but like a vision. What does he remember so vividly of our moments together? That afternoon. That afternoon when he was taken by the sense of living in a fairy tale, with a veil between himself and me. Me the very real. The very Me. And the very him. I crave for him. Only him. I want to live with him, be free with him, suffer with him. Phrases from his letter haunt me. Yet I have doubts about our love. I fear my impetuosity. I follow him with my soul, I enter into his feelings as he wanders through his wide streets, I partake of his breathing, his desires. I think his thoughts Everything in ...