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The Whirlpool (Introduction Only)

…ulphur of the spring and the poisonous mist that plays upon it. "Come, Love, nor list to tired dreams that twist thy lithe long limbs in fierce abandonment," fierce as Pasiphae in Edmond d'Haraucourt's secret masterpiece; all the joyous torture of the damned in a phrase. Dear lady, when this flask of perfume comes from the bookseller, you shall tire your hair, and paint your face, and gild your nails; you shall anoint yourself with the witch- ointment, and in the rosy twilight touch with a flame the pastilles of musk and ambergris. Then you lie…