Her hatred of him was tinged with
fatal contempt.
'It's not a question of my right over you--though I HAVE some right,
remember. I want to know, I only want to know what it is that
subjugates you to that little scum of a sculptor downstairs, what it is
that brings you down like a humble maggot, in worship of him. I want to
know what you creep after.'
She stood over against the window, listening. Then she turned round.
'Do you?' she said, in her most easy, most cutting voice. 'Do you want
to know what it is in him? It's because he has some understanding of a
woman, because he is not stupid. That's why it is.'
A queer, sinister, animal-like smile came over Gerald's face.
'But what understanding is it?' he said. 'The understanding of a flea,
a hopping flea with a proboscis. Why should you crawl abject before the
understanding of a flea?'
There passed through Gudrun's mind Blake's representation of the soul
of a flea. She wanted to fit it to Loerke. Blake was a clown too. But
it was necessary to answer Gerald.
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