His will held his outer
life, his outer mind, his outer being unbroken and unchanged. But the
pressure was too great. He would have to find something to make good
the equilibrium. Something must come with him into the hollow void of
death in his soul, fill it up, and so equalise the pressure within to
the pressure without. For day by day he felt more and more like a
bubble filled with darkness, round which whirled the iridescence of his
consciousness, and upon which the pressure of the outer world, the
outer life, roared vastly.
In this extremity his instinct led him to Gudrun. He threw away
everything now--he only wanted the relation established with her. He
would follow her to the studio, to be near her, to talk to her. He
would stand about the room, aimlessly picking up the implements, the
lumps of clay, the little figures she had cast--they were whimsical and
grotesque--looking at them without perceiving them. And she felt him
following her, dogging her heels like a doom. She held away from him,
and yet she knew he drew always a little nearer, a little nearer.
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