It seemed to belong to
an old, past world which they had inhabited together, and in which
Ursula was a foreigner. She was almost a parvenue in their old cultured
milieu. Her convention was not their convention, their standards were
not her standards. But theirs were established, they had the sanction
and the grace of age. He and she together, Hermione and Birkin, were
people of the same old tradition, the same withered deadening culture.
And she, Ursula, was an intruder. So they always made her feel.
Hermione poured a little cream into a saucer. The simple way she
assumed her rights in Birkin's room maddened and discouraged Ursula.
There was a fatality about it, as if it were bound to be. Hermione
lifted the cat and put the cream before him. He planted his two paws on
the edge of the table and bent his gracious young head to drink.
'Siccuro che capisce italiano,' sang Hermione, 'non l'avra dimenticato,
la lingua della Mamma.'
She lifted the cat's head with her long, slow, white fingers, not
letting him drink, holding him in her power.
Pages:
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624