Even Gudrun was a separate unit, separate, separate, having nothing to
do with this self, this Ursula, in her new world of reality. That old
shadow-world, the actuality of the past--ah, let it go! She rose free
on the wings of her new condition.
Gudrun and Gerald had not come in. They had walked up the valley
straight in front of the house, not like Ursula and Birkin, on to the
little hill at the right. Gudrun was driven by a strange desire. She
wanted to plunge on and on, till she came to the end of the valley of
snow. Then she wanted to climb the wall of white finality, climb over,
into the peaks that sprang up like sharp petals in the heart of the
frozen, mysterious navel of the world. She felt that there, over the
strange blind, terrible wall of rocky snow, there in the navel of the
mystic world, among the final cluster of peaks, there, in the infolded
navel of it all, was her consummation. If she could but come there,
alone, and pass into the infolded navel of eternal snow and of
uprising, immortal peaks of snow and rock, she would be a oneness with
all, she would be herself the eternal, infinite silence, the sleeping,
timeless, frozen centre of the All.
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