'What am I to do at all, then?' came Gerald's voice.
'What you like. What am I to do myself?'
In the silence Birkin could feel Gerald musing this fact.
'I'm blest if I know,' came the good-humoured answer.
'You see,' said Birkin, 'part of you wants the Pussum, and nothing but
the Pussum, part of you wants the mines, the business, and nothing but
the business--and there you are--all in bits--'
'And part of me wants something else,' said Gerald, in a queer, quiet,
real voice.
'What?' said Birkin, rather surprised.
'That's what I hoped you could tell me,' said Gerald.
There was a silence for some time.
'I can't tell you--I can't find my own way, let alone yours. You might
marry,' Birkin replied.
'Who--the Pussum?' asked Gerald.
'Perhaps,' said Birkin. And he rose and went to the window.
'That is your panacea,' said Gerald. 'But you haven't even tried it on
yourself yet, and you are sick enough.'
'I am,' said Birkin. 'Still, I shall come right.'
'Through marriage?'
'Yes,' Birkin answered obstinately.
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