Finally he ended up in a room with darkened windows, windows blackened-out or smeared in soot as if to conceal shameful crimes. The floorboards were chipped-bare, and creaked echoingly as he trod over them. He was by now in such a disoriented state that he couldn't tell whether he was in a basement or in a penthouse flat, nor did he care.
It seemed like an artist's studio, out-of-the-way, bare, with slim iron pillars that held up the plaster roof. The woman leading him in led him to a corner where there were the rudiments of a home, a red-shaded standard lamp that she clicked on and which emitted a dim yellow light, and a plump satin couch that she pushed him back on, and among whose cushions he reeled and sank. Half-comatose there, unshaven and ruffle-haired, M. saw her step forward into the lamp-light from the dust and darkness of the room.
Her curled hair was very honey-yellow blonde, and in it could be seen depths and tints of richer orange-yellow colour that shone and sprinkled in the light. Her mouth was open in a wide grin, and he saw the light blaze on her white teeth and red lips. She advanced as if to devour him, to mock or reprimand him. The thing that shocked M though were her eyes, that were madly blue, of a lifeless blue which seemed yet to have an infinite depth, which seemed to recede into her eye. Her naked limbs that thrust forward as she bent over his still form, and her breasts bulged sadly from her tight red dress so that the line of her cleavage was highlighted in shadow. She seemed vital, alive, blood pulsing through her veins, life-force so strong in her that it was frightening....
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