'I don't know,' he said.
'I do--I want to love,' said Birkin.
'You do?'
'Yes. I want the finality of love.'
'The finality of love,' repeated Gerald. And he waited for a moment.
'Just one woman?' he added. The evening light, flooding yellow along
the fields, lit up Birkin's face with a tense, abstract steadfastness.
Gerald still could not make it out.
'Yes, one woman,' said Birkin.
But to Gerald it sounded as if he were insistent rather than confident.
'I don't believe a woman, and nothing but a woman, will ever make my
life,' said Gerald.
'Not the centre and core of it--the love between you and a woman?'
asked Birkin.
Gerald's eyes narrowed with a queer dangerous smile as he watched the
other man.
'I never quite feel it that way,' he said.
'You don't? Then wherein does life centre, for you?'
'I don't know--that's what I want somebody to tell me. As far as I can
make out, it doesn't centre at all. It is artificially held TOGETHER by
the social mechanism.
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