'I'm going.'
And in the next instant the door was closed, they heard the outer door,
then her quick steps down the garden path, then the gate banged, and
her light footfall was gone. There was a silence like death in the
house.
Ursula went straight to the station, hastening heedlessly on winged
feet. There was no train, she must walk on to the junction. As she went
through the darkness, she began to cry, and she wept bitterly, with a
dumb, heart-broken, child's anguish, all the way on the road, and in
the train. Time passed unheeded and unknown, she did not know where she
was, nor what was taking place. Only she wept from fathomless depths of
hopeless, hopeless grief, the terrible grief of a child, that knows no
extenuation.
Yet her voice had the same defensive brightness as she spoke to
Birkin's landlady at the door.
'Good evening! Is Mr Birkin in? Can I see him?'
'Yes, he's in. He's in his study.'
Ursula slipped past the woman. His door opened. He had heard her voice.
'Hello!' he exclaimed in surprise, seeing her standing there with the
valise in her hand, and marks of tears on her face.
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