She kissed him, seeking and searching to understand him, to kiss the secret Rango so that it would rise to the surface, become visible and accessible.

And then he revealed the secret of his behavior to her in words which made her heart contract: "It's useless, Djuna. Zora and I are victims of fatality. Everything I've tried has failed. I have bad luck. Everyone has harmed me, from my family on, friends, everyone. Everything has become twisted, and useless."

"But Rango, I don't believe in fatality. There is an inner pattern of character which you can discover and you can alter. It's only the romantic who believes we are victims of a destiny. And you always talk against the romantic."

Rango shook his head vehemently, impatiently. "You can't tamper with nature. One just is. Nature cannot be controlled. One is born with a certain character and if that is one's fate, as you say, well, there is nothing to be done. Character cannot be changed."

He had those instinctive illuminations, flashes of intuition, but they were intermittent, like lightning in a stormy sky, and then in between he would go blind again.

The goodness which at times shone so brilliantly in him was a goodness without insight, too; he was not even aware of the changes from goodness to anger, and could not conjure any understanding against his violent outbursts.

Djuna feared those changes. His face at times beautiful, human, and near, at others twisted, cruel, and bitter. She wanted to know what caused the changes, to avert the havoc they caused, but he eluded all efforts at understanding.

She wished she had never told him anything about her past.

She remembered what incited her to talk. It was during the early part of the relationship, when one night he had leaned over and whispered: "You are an angel. I can't believe you can be taken like a woman." And he had hesitated for an instant to embrace her.

She had rushed to disprove it, eagerly denying it. She had as great a fear of being told that she was an angel as other women had of their demon being exposed. She felt it was not true, that she had a demon in her as everyone had, but that she controlled it rigidly, never allowing it to cause harm.

She also had a fear that this image of the angel would eclipse the woman in her who wanted an earthy bond. An angel to her was the least desirable of bedfellows!

To talk about her past had been her way to say: "I am a woman, not an angel."

"A sensual angel," then he conceded. But what he registered was her obedience to her impulses, her capacity for love, her gift of herself, on which to base henceforth his doubts of her fidelity.

"And you're Vesuvius," she said laughing. "Whenever I talk about understanding, mastering, changing, you get as angry as an earthquake. You have no faith that destiny can be changed."