Yet again, they were flickering their way to the centre, finding the
path blindly, enviously. And again, all was still, as Birkin and Ursula
watched. The waters were loud on the shore. He saw the moon regathering
itself insidiously, saw the heart of the rose intertwining vigorously
and blindly, calling back the scattered fragments, winning home the
fragments, in a pulse and in effort of return.
And he was not satisfied. Like a madness, he must go on. He got large
stones, and threw them, one after the other, at the white-burning
centre of the moon, till there was nothing but a rocking of hollow
noise, and a pond surged up, no moon any more, only a few broken flakes
tangled and glittering broadcast in the darkness, without aim or
meaning, a darkened confusion, like a black and white kaleidoscope
tossed at random. The hollow night was rocking and crashing with noise,
and from the sluice came sharp, regular flashes of sound. Flakes of
light appeared here and there, glittering tormented among the shadows,
far off, in strange places; among the dripping shadow of the willow on
the island.
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