Birkin stood back.
'Yes, let it,' he said suddenly, the whole tone gone out of his voice,
that had been so insistent, bearing everybody down. And he went away.
But he felt, later, a little compunction. He had been violent, cruel
with poor Hermione. He wanted to recompense her, to make it up. He had
hurt her, he had been vindictive. He wanted to be on good terms with
her again.
He went into her boudoir, a remote and very cushiony place. She was
sitting at her table writing letters. She lifted her face abstractedly
when he entered, watched him go to the sofa, and sit down. Then she
looked down at her paper again.
He took up a large volume which he had been reading before, and became
minutely attentive to his author. His back was towards Hermione. She
could not go on with her writing. Her whole mind was a chaos, darkness
breaking in upon it, and herself struggling to gain control with her
will, as a swimmer struggles with the swirling water. But in spite of
her efforts she was borne down, darkness seemed to break over her, she
felt as if her heart was bursting.
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