But in his figure, in the greeny loden suit,
he looked CHETIF and puny, still strangely different from the rest.
He had taken a little toboggan, for the two of them, and they trudged
between the blinding slopes of snow, that burned their now hardening
faces, laughing in an endless sequence of quips and jests and polyglot
fancies. The fancies were the reality to both of them, they were both
so happy, tossing about the little coloured balls of verbal humour and
whimsicality. Their natures seemed to sparkle in full interplay, they
were enjoying a pure game. And they wanted to keep it on the level of a
game, their relationship: SUCH a fine game.
Loerke did not take the toboganning very seriously. He put no fire and
intensity into it, as Gerald did. Which pleased Gudrun. She was weary,
oh so weary of Gerald's gripped intensity of physical motion. Loerke
let the sledge go wildly, and gaily, like a flying leaf, and when, at a
bend, he pitched both her and him out into the snow, he only waited for
them both to pick themselves up unhurt off the keen white ground, to be
laughing and pert as a pixie.
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