He saw the grotesque, and a curious sort of mechanical motion intoxicated him, a confusion in nature. He hated Mestrovic, was not satisfied with the Futurists, he liked the West African wooden figures, the Aztec art, Mexican and Central American. They had an invariable topic, in their art. And often, when he went away, she talked to the little German sculptor. The he seemed to sweep out of life, to be a projectile into the beyond. He left her alone only when he went skiing, a sport he loved, and which she did not practise. But in the unnatural state of patience, and the unwillingness to harden himself against her, in which he found himself, he took no notice, although her soft kindliness to the other man, whom he hated as a noxious insect, made him shiver again with an access of the strange shuddering that came over him repeatedly. She had a curious sort of allegiance with Loerke, all the while, now, something insidious and traitorous.
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