Human or inhuman
mattered nothing. The perfect pulse throbbed with indescribable being,
miraculous unborn species.
Birkin went home again to Gerald. He went into the room, and sat down
on the bed. Dead, dead and cold!
Imperial Caesar dead, and turned to clay
Would stop a hole to keep the wind away.
There was no response from that which had been Gerald. Strange,
congealed, icy substance--no more. No more!
Terribly weary, Birkin went away, about the day's business. He did it
all quietly, without bother. To rant, to rave, to be tragic, to make
situations--it was all too late. Best be quiet, and bear one's soul in
patience and in fullness.
But when he went in again, at evening, to look at Gerald between the
candles, because of his heart's hunger, suddenly his heart contracted,
his own candle all but fell from his hand, as, with a strange
whimpering cry, the tears broke out. He sat down in a chair, shaken by
a sudden access. Ursula who had followed him, recoiled aghast from him,
as he sat with sunken head and body convulsively shaken, making a
strange, horrible sound of tears.
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