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alked in a confused heat of religious
yearning。 She wanted Jesus to love her deliciously; to take her
sensuous offering; to give her sensuous response。 For weeks she
went in a muse of enjoyment。
And all the time she knew underneath that she was playing
false; accepting the passion of Jesus for her own physical
satisfaction。 But she was in such a daze; such a tangle。 How
could she get free?
She hated herself; she wanted to trample on herself; destroy
herself。 How could one bee free? She hated religion; because
it lent itself to her confusion。 She abused everything。 She
wanted to bee hard; indifferent; brutally callous to
everything but just the immediate need; the immediate
satisfaction。 To have a yearning towards Jesus; only that she
might use him to pander to her own soft sensation; use him as a
means of reacting upon herself; maddened her in the end。 There
was then no Jesus; no sentimentality。 With all the bitter hatred
of helplessness she hated sentimentality。
At this period came the young Skrebensky。 She was nearly
sixteen years old; a slim; smouldering girl; deeply reticent;
yet lapsing into unreserved expansiveness now and then; when she
seemed to give away her whole soul; but when in fact she only
made another counterfeit of her soul for outward presentation。
She was sensitive in the extreme; always tortured; always
affecting a callous indifference to screen herself。
She was at this time a nuisance on the face of the earth;
with her spasmodic passion and her slumberous torment。 She
seemed to go with all her soul in her hands; yearning; to the
other person。 Yet all the wh