He was divided entirely between his spirit, which
stood outside, and knew, and his body, that was a plunging, unconscious
stroke of blood.
'I could have thrown you--using violence--' panted Gerald. 'But you
beat me right enough.'
'Yes,' said Birkin, hardening his throat and producing the words in the
tension there, 'you're much stronger than I--you could beat
me--easily.'
Then he relaxed again to the terrible plunging of his heart and his
blood.
'It surprised me,' panted Gerald, 'what strength you've got. Almost
supernatural.'
'For a moment,' said Birkin.
He still heard as if it were his own disembodied spirit hearing,
standing at some distance behind him. It drew nearer however, his
spirit. And the violent striking of blood in his chest was sinking
quieter, allowing his mind to come back. He realised that he was
leaning with all his weight on the soft body of the other man. It
startled him, because he thought he had withdrawn. He recovered
himself, and sat up. But he was still vague and unestablished.
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