She looked round at him, rather defiantly.
'Because I said I was going to be married tomorrow, and he bullied me.'
'Why did he bully you?'
Her mouth dropped again, she remembered the scene once more, the tears
came up.
'Because I said he didn't care--and he doesn't, it's only his
domineeringness that's hurt--' she said, her mouth pulled awry by her
weeping, all the time she spoke, so that he almost smiled, it seemed so
childish. Yet it was not childish, it was a mortal conflict, a deep
wound.
'It isn't quite true,' he said. 'And even so, you shouldn't SAY it.'
'It IS true--it IS true,' she wept, 'and I won't be bullied by his
pretending it's love--when it ISN'T--he doesn't care, how can he--no,
he can't-'
He sat in silence. She moved him beyond himself.
'Then you shouldn't rouse him, if he can't,' replied Birkin quietly.
'And I HAVE loved him, I have,' she wept. 'I've loved him always, and
he's always done this to me, he has--'
'It's been a love of opposition, then,' he said.
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