Then would appear the
gleaming, ruffled head of Gerald, as the struggle changed, then for a
moment the dun-coloured, shadow-like head of the other man would lift
up from the conflict, the eyes wide and dreadful and sightless.
At length Gerald lay back inert on the carpet, his breast rising in
great slow panting, whilst Birkin kneeled over him, almost unconscious.
Birkin was much more exhausted. He caught little, short breaths, he
could scarcely breathe any more. The earth seemed to tilt and sway, and
a complete darkness was coming over his mind. He did not know what
happened. He slid forward quite unconscious, over Gerald, and Gerald
did not notice. Then he was half-conscious again, aware only of the
strange tilting and sliding of the world. The world was sliding,
everything was sliding off into the darkness. And he was sliding,
endlessly, endlessly away.
He came to consciousness again, hearing an immense knocking outside.
What could be happening, what was it, the great hammer-stroke
resounding through the house? He did not know.
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