And these
were the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. For to
realise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never to
be borne. It was an admission never to be made.
Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almost
disintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm.
'Well,' he said in his weakened voice, 'and how are you and Winifred
getting on?'
'Oh, very well indeed,' replied Gudrun.
There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas called
up were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sick
man's dying.
'The studio answers all right?' he said.
'Splendid. It couldn't be more beautiful and perfect,' said Gudrun.
She waited for what he would say next.
'And you think Winifred has the makings of a sculptor?'
It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless.
'I'm sure she has. She will do good things one day.'
'Ah! Then her life won't be altogether wasted, you think?'
Gudrun was rather surprised.
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