She shrank a little, as if she
were exposed to his eyes, and as if it were a pain to her. She
darkened, her soul clouded over, she turned aside. She had been driven
out of her own radiant, single world. And she dreaded contact, it was
almost unnatural to her at these times.
'Yes,' she said vaguely, in a doubting, absent voice.
Birkin's heart contracted swiftly, in a sudden fire of bitterness. It
all meant nothing to her. He had been mistaken again. She was in some
self-satisfied world of her own. He and his hopes were accidentals,
violations to her. It drove her father to a pitch of mad exasperation.
He had had to put up with this all his life, from her.
'Well, what do you say?' he cried.
She winced. Then she glanced down at her father, half-frightened, and
she said:
'I didn't speak, did I?' as if she were afraid she might have committed
herself.
'No,' said her father, exasperated. 'But you needn't look like an
idiot. You've got your wits, haven't you?'
She ebbed away in silent hostility.
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