‘Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, don’t you think?’ he said.

She was rather taken aback. But, gathering herself together, she replied:

‘Oh — better dance than wail, certainly.’

‘So I think.’

And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious. A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. She felt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them. She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and her heart grew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also — or something, something equivalent. Ah, if that which was unknown