She was not herself,--she was not anything. She was something that is
going to be--soon--soon--very soon. But as yet, she was only imminent.
She went to see her parents. It was a rather stiff, sad meeting, more
like a verification of separateness than a reunion. But they were all
vague and indefinite with one another, stiffened in the fate that moved
them apart.
She did not really come to until she was on the ship crossing from
Dover to Ostend. Dimly she had come down to London with Birkin, London
had been a vagueness, so had the train-journey to Dover. It was all
like a sleep.
And now, at last, as she stood in the stern of the ship, in a
pitch-dark, rather blowy night, feeling the motion of the sea, and
watching the small, rather desolate little lights that twinkled on the
shores of England, as on the shores of nowhere, watched them sinking
smaller and smaller on the profound and living darkness, she felt her
soul stirring to awake from its anaesthetic sleep.
'Let us go forward, shall we?' said Birkin.
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