He stood away in revulsion.
Here was one centre then, here in the complete darkness beside the
unseen, raw grave. But there was nothing for him here. No, he had
nothing to stay here for. He felt as if some of the clay were sticking
cold and unclean, on his heart. No, enough of this.
Where then?--home? Never! It was no use going there. That was less than
no use. It could not be done. There was somewhere else to go. Where?
A dangerous resolve formed in his heart, like a fixed idea. There was
Gudrun--she would be safe in her home. But he could get at her--he
would get at her. He would not go back tonight till he had come to her,
if it cost him his life. He staked his all on this throw.
He set off walking straight across the fields towards Beldover. It was
so dark, nobody could ever see him. His feet were wet and cold, heavy
with clay. But he went on persistently, like a wind, straight forward,
as if to his fate. There were great gaps in his consciousness. He was
conscious that he was at Winthorpe hamlet, but quite unconscious how he
had got there.
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