Her mockery quivered through his muscles with curious re-echoes. When
he slept he seemed to crouch down in the bed, lapped up in his own
strength, that yet was hollow.
And Gudrun slept strongly, a victorious sleep. Suddenly, she was almost
fiercely awake. The small timber room glowed with the dawn, that came
upwards from the low window. She could see down the valley when she
lifted her head: the snow with a pinkish, half-revealed magic, the
fringe of pine-trees at the bottom of the slope. And one tiny figure
moved over the vaguely-illuminated space.
She glanced at his watch; it was seven o'clock. He was still completely
asleep. And she was so hard awake, it was almost frightening--a hard,
metallic wakefulness. She lay looking at him.
He slept in the subjection of his own health and defeat. She was
overcome by a sincere regard for him. Till now, she was afraid before
him. She lay and thought about him, what he was, what he represented in
the world. A fine, independent will, he had.
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