I heard him speak of Cain and the mark on his forehead,
and suddenly I felt deep within me the knowledge that the story could have a different signification,
that it could be looked at from another view, that it was possible to be critical.
From that instant the bond of communication between Demian and myself was again established.
And oddly enough, scarcely had this sense of a certain solidarity between us presented itself to my mind,
than I saw it transferred as if by magic from the ideal world to the world of space.
I did not know whether he had been able to arrange it himself, or whether it was pure chance—at that time I believed firmly in chance—
but a few days after I noticed Demian had suddenly changed his place and was now sitting directly in front of me.
(I recollect still how pleasant it was, in the midst of the miserable workhouse atmosphere of the overcrowded schoolroom,
to sense the delicate, fresh aroma of soap from his neck in the morning.)
A few days later he had changed again, and now sat next to me.
And there he stayed, occupying the same place through the whole of that winter and spring.
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