Birkin lingered vaguely by the water. Ursula was afraid that he would
stone the moon again. She slipped from her seat and went down to him,
saying:
'You won't throw stones at it any more, will you?'
'How long have you been there?'
'All the time. You won't throw any more stones, will you?'
'I wanted to see if I could make it be quite gone off the pond,' he
said.
'Yes, it was horrible, really. Why should you hate the moon? It hasn't
done you any harm, has it?'
'Was it hate?' he said.
And they were silent for a few minutes.
'When did you come back?' she said.
'Today.'
'Why did you never write?'
'I could find nothing to say.'
'Why was there nothing to say?'
'I don't know. Why are there no daffodils now?'
'No.'
Again there was a space of silence. Ursula looked at the moon. It had
gathered itself together, and was quivering slightly.
'Was it good for you, to be alone?' she asked.
'Perhaps. Not that I know much. But I got over a good deal. Did you do
anything important?'
'No.
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