'
'She doesn't care.'
'No, perhaps not. But one feels the account is left open, and one would
rather it were closed.'
'Would you?' said Birkin. He was looking at the white legs of Gerald,
as the latter sat on the side of the bed in his shirt. They were
white-skinned, full, muscular legs, handsome and decided. Yet they
moved Birkin with a sort of pathos, tenderness, as if they were
childish.
'I think I'd rather close the account,' said Gerald, repeating himself
vaguely.
'It doesn't matter one way or another,' said Birkin.
'You always say it doesn't matter,' said Gerald, a little puzzled,
looking down at the face of the other man affectionately.
'Neither does it,' said Birkin.
'But she was a decent sort, really--'
'Render unto Caesarina the things that are Caesarina's,' said Birkin,
turning aside. It seemed to him Gerald was talking for the sake of
talking. 'Go away, it wearies me--it's too late at night,' he said.
'I wish you'd tell me something that DID matter,' said Gerald, looking
down all the time at the face of the other man, waiting for something.
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