knowledge—and then execrated her for it.
“He wants me to sink myself,” Ursula resumed, “not to have any being of my own—”
“Then why doesn’t he marry an odalisk?” said Hermione in her mild sing-song, “if it is that he wants.” Her long face looked sardonic and amused.
“Yes,” said Ursula vaguely. After all, the tiresome thing was, he did not want an odalisk, he did not want a slave. Hermione would have been his slave—there was in her a horrible desire to prostrate herself before a man—a man who worshipped her, however, and admitted her as the supreme thing. He did not want an odalisk. He wanted a woman to take something from him, to give herself up so much that she could take the last realities of him, the last facts, the last physical facts, physical and unbearable.
And if she did, would he acknowledge her? Would he be able to acknowledge her through everything, or