It stinks of the offal you feed on, you
scavenger dog, you eater of corpses. You are foul, FOUL and you must
know it. Your purity, your candour, your goodness--yes, thank you,
we've had some. What you are is a foul, deathly thing, obscene, that's
what you are, obscene and perverse. You, and love! You may well say,
you don't want love. No, you want YOURSELF, and dirt, and death--that's
what you want. You are so PERVERSE, so death-eating. And then--'
'There's a bicycle coming,' he said, writhing under her loud
denunciation.
She glanced down the road.
'I don't care,' she cried.
Nevertheless she was silent. The cyclist, having heard the voices
raised in altercation, glanced curiously at the man, and the woman, and
at the standing motor-car as he passed.
'--Afternoon,' he said, cheerfully.
'Good-afternoon,' replied Birkin coldly.
They were silent as the man passed into the distance.
A clearer look had come over Birkin's face. He knew she was in the main
right. He knew he was perverse, so spiritual on the one hand, and in
some strange way, degraded, on the other.
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