She looked at Birkin's face. It was white and still and eternal, too
eternal. She linked her fingers imploringly in his, under the cover of
her rug. His fingers responded, his eyes looked back at her. How dark,
like a night, his eyes were, like another world beyond! Oh, if he were
the world as well, if only the world were he! If only he could call a
world into being, that should be their own world!
The Belgians left, the train ran on, through Luxembourg, through
Alsace-Lorraine, through Metz. But she was blind, she could see no
more. Her soul did not look out.
They came at last to Basle, to the hotel. It was all a drifting trance,
from which she never came to. They went out in the morning, before the
train departed. She saw the street, the river, she stood on the bridge.
But it all meant nothing. She remembered some shops--one full of
pictures, one with orange velvet and ermine. But what did these
signify?--nothing.
She was not at ease till they were in the train again. Then she was
relieved.
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