And Gudrun, piqued, left him alone.
This afternoon, however, she came into the lounge as he was talking to
Ursula. His fine, black hair somehow reminded her of a bat, thin as it
was on his full, sensitive-looking head, and worn away at the temples.
He sat hunched up, as if his spirit were bat-like. And Gudrun could see
he was making some slow confidence to Ursula, unwilling, a slow,
grudging, scanty self-revelation. She went and sat by her sister.
He looked at her, then looked away again, as if he took no notice of
her. But as a matter of fact, she interested him deeply.
'Isn't it interesting, Prune,' said Ursula, turning to her sister,
'Herr Loerke is doing a great frieze for a factory in Cologne, for the
outside, the street.'
She looked at him, at his thin, brown, nervous hands, that were
prehensile, and somehow like talons, like 'griffes,' inhuman.
'What IN?' she asked.
'AUS WAS?' repeated Ursula.
'GRANIT,' he replied.
It had become immediately a laconic series of question and answer
between fellow craftsmen.
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