'But Birkin--he is too
positive. He couldn't bear it if you called your soul your own. Of him
that is strictly true.'
'Yes,' said Ursula. 'You must have HIS soul.'
'Exactly! And what can you conceive more deadly?' This was all so true,
that Ursula felt jarred to the bottom of her soul with ugly distaste.
She went on, with the discord jarring and jolting through her, in the
most barren of misery.
Then there started a revulsion from Gudrun. She finished life off so
thoroughly, she made things so ugly and so final. As a matter of fact,
even if it were as Gudrun said, about Birkin, other things were true as
well. But Gudrun would draw two lines under him and cross him out like
an account that is settled. There he was, summed up, paid for, settled,
done with. And it was such a lie. This finality of Gudrun's, this
dispatching of people and things in a sentence, it was all such a lie.
Ursula began to revolt from her sister.
One day as they were walking along the lane, they saw a robin sitting
on the top twig of a bush, singing shrilly.
Pages:
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552