Then Ursula arrived. She was
surprised, unpleasantly so, to see Hermione, of whom she had heard
nothing for some time.
'It is a surprise to see you,' she said.
'Yes,' said Hermione--'I've been away at Aix--'
'Oh, for your health?'
'Yes.'
The two women looked at each other. Ursula resented Hermione's long,
grave, downward-looking face. There was something of the stupidity and
the unenlightened self-esteem of a horse in it. 'She's got a
horse-face,' Ursula said to herself, 'she runs between blinkers.' It
did seem as if Hermione, like the moon, had only one side to her penny.
There was no obverse. She stared out all the time on the narrow, but to
her, complete world of the extant consciousness. In the darkness, she
did not exist. Like the moon, one half of her was lost to life. Her
self was all in her head, she did not know what it was spontaneously to
run or move, like a fish in the water, or a weasel on the grass. She
must always KNOW.
But Ursula only suffered from Hermione's one-sidedness.
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