But for some
reason she disliked it. It did not give her anything. She listened for
the hoarse rustle of the sluice. And she wished for something else out
of the night, she wanted another night, not this moon-brilliant
hardness. She could feel her soul crying out in her, lamenting
desolately.
She saw a shadow moving by the water. It would be Birkin. He had come
back then, unawares. She accepted it without remark, nothing mattered
to her. She sat down among the roots of the alder tree, dim and veiled,
hearing the sound of the sluice like dew distilling audibly into the
night. The islands were dark and half revealed, the reeds were dark
also, only some of them had a little frail fire of reflection. A fish
leaped secretly, revealing the light in the pond. This fire of the
chill night breaking constantly on to the pure darkness, repelled her.
She wished it were perfectly dark, perfectly, and noiseless and without
motion. Birkin, small and dark also, his hair tinged with moonlight,
wandered nearer.
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