Miracle of miracles!--this utterly silent, frozen world of the
mountain-tops was not universal! One might leave it and have done with
it. One might go away.
She wanted to realise the miracle at once. She wanted at this instant
to have done with the snow-world, the terrible, static ice-built
mountain tops. She wanted to see the dark earth, to smell its earthy
fecundity, to see the patient wintry vegetation, to feel the sunshine
touch a response in the buds.
She went back gladly to the house, full of hope. Birkin was reading,
lying in bed.
'Rupert,' she said, bursting in on him. 'I want to go away.'
He looked up at her slowly.
'Do you?' he replied mildly.
She sat by him und put her arms round his neck. It surprised her that
he was so little surprised.
'Don't YOU?' she asked troubled.
'I hadn't thought about it,' he said. 'But I'm sure I do.'
She sat up, suddenly erect.
'I hate it,' she said. 'I hate the snow, and the unnaturalness of it,
the unnatural light it throws on everybody, the ghastly glamour, the
unnatural feelings it makes everybody have.
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