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Birkin knew she was waiting for him to participate. And dutifully he spoke up. Again Hermione paused, as if to allow this statement to cool. But Gerald was now on the scent of argument. It is like a family. You MUST make provision. And to make provision you have got to strive against other families, other nations.

It makes bad blood. And bad blood accumulates. She turned to Birkin. It is not all a question of goods? When he fights me for his hat, he is fighting me for his liberty. A man does NOT come and take my hat from off my head, does he? If I am compelled to offer fight, I lose the latter. It is a question which is worth more to me, my pleasant liberty of conduct, or my hat. The face of the tall straight woman turned slowly and as if drugged to this new speaker. It is a question to him whether his hat or his peace of mind is more important. If the national crown-piece is an old hat, then the thieving gent may have it.

Let us drink toasts.

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Toasts—glasses, glasses— now then, toasts! The bubbles broke at the rim, the man withdrew, and feeling a sudden thirst at the sight of the fresh wine, Birkin drank up his glass. A queer little tension in the room roused him. He felt a sharp constraint. And the hired footman came, with a silent step of cold servant-like disapprobation. Birkin decided that he detested toasts, and footmen, and assemblies, and mankind altogether, in most of its aspects. Then he rose to make a speech.

But he was somehow disgusted. Several men strolled out into the garden.

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There was a lawn, and flower-beds, and at the boundary an iron fence shutting off the little field or park. The view was pleasant; a highroad curving round the edge of a low lake, under the trees. In the spring air, the water gleamed and the opposite woods were purplish with new life. Charming Jersey cattle came to the fence, breathing hoarsely from their velvet muzzles at the human beings, expecting perhaps a crust. Birkin leaned on the fence. A cow was breathing wet hotness on his hand. The bridegroom took his cigar from his mouth.

Then a rather thin smile came over his face. He did not want to say anything about the flight to the church door. At least she touched first, but I had my hand on her shoulder. Birkin told him about the race of the bride and the bridegroom. But he fell quite flat. Laura was at the top of the churchyard steps when our cab came up. She saw Lupton bolting towards her. And she fled. But why do you look so cross?

Does it hurt your sense of the family dignity? Then he made a little gesture of dismissal, with his eyebrows. I hate standards. Anybody who is anything can just be himself and do as he likes. I think it was perfect good form in Laura to bolt from Lupton to the church door. It was almost a masterpiece in good form.

You think people should just do as they like. But I should like them to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness. And they only like to do the collective thing. This is a complete truth. It takes two people to make a murder: a murderer and a murderee.

And a murderee is a man who is murderable. And a man who is murderable is a man who in a profound if hidden lust desires to be murdered. There was a pause of strange enmity between the two men, that was very near to love. It was always the same between them; always their talk brought them into a deadly nearness of contact, a strange, perilous intimacy which was either hate or love, or both.

They parted with apparent unconcern, as if their going apart were a trivial occurrence. And they really kept it to the level of trivial occurrence. Yet the heart of each burned from the other. They burned with each other, inwardly. This they would never admit. They intended to keep their relationship a casual free-and-easy friendship, they were not going to be so unmanly and unnatural as to allow any heart-burning between them.

They had not the faintest belief in deep relationship between men and men, and their disbelief prevented any development of their powerful but suppressed friendliness. In the class-room the last lesson was in progress, peaceful and still.


It was elementary botany. The desks were littered with catkins, hazel and willow, which the children had been sketching. But the sky had come overdark, as the end of the afternoon approached: there was scarcely light to draw any more. Ursula stood in front of the class, leading the children by questions to understand the structure and the meaning of the catkins.

Ursula, however, was scarcely conscious of it. She was busy, the end of the day was here, the work went on as a peaceful tide that is at flood, hushed to retire. This day had gone by like so many more, in an activity that was like a trance. At the end there was a little haste, to finish what was in hand. She was pressing the children with questions, so that they should know all they were to know, by the time the gong went.

She stood in shadow in front of the class, with catkins in her hand, and she leaned towards the children, absorbed in the passion of instruction. She heard, but did not notice the click of the door. She saw, in the shaft of ruddy, coppercoloured light near her, the face of a man. It was gleaming like fire, watching her, waiting for her to be aware. It startled her terribly. She thought she was going to faint. All her suppressed, subconscious fear sprang into being, with anguish.

He laughed, saying he was sorry. She wondered why it amused him. The class-room was distinct and hard, a strange place after the soft dim magic that filled it before he came. Birkin turned curiously to look at Ursula. Her eyes were round and wondering, bewildered, her mouth quivered slightly. She looked like one who is suddenly wakened. There was a living, tender beauty, like a tender light of dawn shining from her face. He looked at her with a new pleasure, feeling gay in his heart, irresponsible. Ursula watched his intent progress. There was a stillness in his motion that hushed the activities of her heart.

His presence was so quiet, almost like a vacancy in the corporate air. Suddenly he lifted his face to her, and her heart quickened at the flicker of his voice. Outline scarcely matters in this case. There is just the one fact to emphasise. At that moment another vision was seen through the glass panels of the door.

It was Hermione Roddice. Birkin went and opened to her. I wanted to see you when you were on duty. And then only she turned to Ursula, who, with all the class, had been watching the little scene between the lovers. This was the answer Hermione wanted. She turned satisfied to Birkin.

She was a strange figure in the class-room, wearing a large, old cloak of greenish cloth, on which was a raised pattern of dull gold. The high collar, and the inside of the cloak, was lined with dark fur. Beneath she had a dress of fine lav- 48 Women in Love ender-coloured cloth, trimmed with fur, and her hat was close-fitting, made of fur and of the dull, green-and-gold figured stuff. She was tall and strange, she looked as if she had come out of some new, bizarre picture. Have you ever noticed them? And he came close and pointed them out to her, on the sprig she held.

And she remained for some moments looking only at the small buds out of which the red flickers of the stigma issued. Both Birkin and Ursula were suspended. The little red pistillate Free eBooks at Planet eBook. The lesson was finished, the books were put away, at last the class was dismissed. And still Hermione sat at the table, with her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table, her long white face pushed up, not attending to anything.

Birkin had gone to the window, and was looking from the brilliantlylighted room on to the grey, colourless outside, where rain was noiselessly falling. Ursula put away her things in the cupboard. At length Hermione rose and came near to her. It takes all my strength, to bear the ugliness of this district, when I stay here. I should be so glad. I think she is wonderful. I think some of her work is really wonderful. I have two water-wagtails, carved in wood, and painted—perhaps you have seen it? She likes to look through the wrong end of the opera glasses, and see the world that way—why is it, do you think?

He approached in silence. Hermione looked at her slowly. Hermione took no notice. Suddenly her face puckered, her brow was knit with thought, she seemed twisted in trou- Free eBooks at Planet eBook. Do you really think the children are better for being roused to consciousness? He was hollow-cheeked and pale, almost unearthly. And the woman, with her serious, conscience-harrowing question tortured him on the quick. His voice was brutal, scornful, cruel. Hermione remained with her face lifted up, abstracted. He hung silent in irritation. She slowly looked at him. There was a look of exhaustion about her.

For some moments there was silence. Or is it better to leave them untouched, spontaneous. She opened her eyes and looked at him slowly. She paused, watching him all the while, her eyes vague. Then she wiped her fingers across her brow, with a vague weariness. It irritated him bitterly. Are not the young people growing up today, really dead before they have a chance to live? They are overconscious, burdened to death with consciousness. But she took no notice of this, only went on with her own rhapsodic interrogation. And what does it mean to me, after all? What does all this knowing mean to me?

It means nothing. Even your animalism, you want it in your head. It is all purely secondary—and more decadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism. What is it but the worst and last form of intellectualism, this love of yours for passion and the animal instincts? Passion and the instincts—you want them hard enough, but through your head, in your consciousness. It all takes place in your head, under that skull of yours. Ursula stood covered with wonder and shame. It frightened her, to see how they hated each other. He seemed to be charging her before the unseeing air.

There, in the mirror, you must have everything. But now you have come to all your conclusions, you want to go back and be like a savage, without knowledge. She sat convulsed with fury and violation, speechless, like a stricken pythoness of the Greek oracle. You Free eBooks at Planet eBook. You want to have things in your power. And why? You have no sensuality. You have only your will and your conceit of consciousness, and your lust for power, to KNOW.

He had an impulse to kneel and plead for forgiveness. But a bitterer red anger burned up to fury in him. He became unconscious of her, he was only a passionate voice speaking. You, the most deliberate thing that ever walked or crawled!


Because you want to have everything in your own volition, your deliberate voluntary consciousness. You want it all in that loathsome little skull of yours, that ought to be cracked like a nut. If one cracked your skull perhaps one might get a spontaneous, passionate woman out of you, with real sensuality. As it is, what you want is pornography—looking at yourself in mirrors, watching your naked animal actions in mirrors, so that you can have it all in your consciousness, make it all mental.

Yet Ursula was concerned now only with solving her own problems, in the light of his words. She was pale and abstracted. Birkin looked at her, and became intent in his explanation. How can you have knowledge not in your head? The two women were jeering at him, jeering him into nothingness. The laugh of the shrill, triumphant female sounded from Hermione, jeering him as if he were a neuter. A horrible despair, and at the same time a sense of release, liberation, came over Hermione. She turned with a pleasant intimacy to Ursula. Hermione looked down at her, gratified, reflecting, and strangely absent, as if possessed, as if not quite there.

I will write to you here, at the school, shall I? I shall be so glad. She knew Ursula as an immediate rival, and the knowledge strangely exhilarated her. Also she was taking leave. It always gave her a sense of strength, advantage, to be departing and leaving the other behind.

Moreover she was taking the man with her, if only in hate. Birkin stood aside, fixed and unreal. But now, when it was his turn to bid good-bye, he began to speak again. We are so conceited, and so unproud. Both women were hostile and resentful. He sounded as if he were addressing a meeting. Hermione merely paid no attention, stood with her shoulders tight in a shrug of dislike. Ursula was watching him as if furtively, not really aware of what she was seeing.

There was a great physical attractiveness in him—a curious hidden richness, that came through his thinness and his pallor like another voice, conveying another knowledge of him. It was in the curves of his brows and his chin, rich, fine, exquisite curves, the powerful beauty of life itself. She could not say what it was. But there was a sense of richness and of liberty. And immediately the queer, careless, terribly attractive smile came over his eyes and brows, though his mouth did not relax.

A spasm of anger and chagrin went over Ursula. His face set. And he bade good-bye, as if he had ceased to notice her. They were gone. Ursula stood looking at the door for some moments. Then she put out the lights. And having done so, she sat down again in her chair, absorbed and lost. And then she began to cry, bitterly, bitterly weeping: but whether for misery or joy, she never knew. On the Saturday it rained, a soft drizzling rain that held off at times. In one of the intervals Gudrun and Ursula set out for a walk, going towards Willey Water.

The atmosphere was grey and translucent, the birds sang sharply on the young twigs, the earth would be quickening and hastening in growth. The two girls walked swiftly, gladly, because of the soft, subtle rush of morning that filled the wet haze. By the road the black-thorn was in blossom, white and wet, its tiny amber grains burning faintly in the white smoke of blossom. Purple twigs were darkly luminous in the grey air, high hedges glowed like living shadows, hovering nearer, coming into creation. The morning was full of a new creation.

https://isaborosex.tk When the sisters came to Willey Water, the lake lay all grey and visionary, stretching into the moist, translucent vista of trees and meadow. Fine electric activity in sound came from the dumbles below the road, the birds piping one against the other, and water mysteriously plashing, issuing from the lake.

The two girls drifted swiftly along. In front of them, at the corner of the lake, near the road, was a mossy boat-house under a walnut tree, and a little landing-stage where a boat Free eBooks at Planet eBook. All was shadowy with coming summer. Suddenly, from the boat-house, a white figure ran out, frightening in its swift sharp transit, across the old landing-stage. It launched in a white arc through the air, there was a bursting of the water, and among the smooth ripples a swimmer was making out to space, in a centre of faintly heaving motion.

The whole otherworld, wet and remote, he had to himself. He could move into the pure translucency of the grey, uncreated water. Gudrun stood by the stone wall, watching. She stood watching the motion on the bosom of the water, as if fascinated. He, having swum a certain distance, turned round and was swimming on his back, looking along the water at the two girls by the wall.

In the faint wash of motion, they could see his ruddy face, and could feel him watching them. And she stood motionless gazing over the water at the face which washed up and down on the flood, as he swam steadily. From his separate element he saw them and he exulted to himself because of his own advantage, his possession of a world to himself. He was immune and perfect. He loved his own vigorous, thrusting motion, and the violent impulse of the very cold water against his limbs, buoying him up. He could see the girls watching him a way off, outside, and that pleased him.

He lifted his arm from the water, in a sign to them. They watched him. He waved again, with a strange movement of recognition across the difference. Gudrun said nothing, only stood still looking over the water. Gerald suddenly turned, and was swimming away swiftly, with a side stroke. He was alone now, alone and immune in the middle of the waters, which he had all to himself. He exulted in his isolation in the new element, unquestioned and unconditioned.

He was happy, thrusting with his legs and all his body, without bond or connection anywhere, just himself in the watery world. Gudrun envied him almost painfully. Even this momentary possession of pure isolation and fluidity seemed to her so terribly desirable that she felt herself as if damned, out there on the high-road. She could not understand. Supposing I want to swim up that water.

It is impossible, it is one of the impossibilities of life, for me to take my clothes off now and jump in. The two sisters went on, up the road. They were passing between the trees just below Shortlands. They looked up at the long, low house, dim and glamorous in the wet morning, its cedar trees slanting before the windows. Gudrun seemed to be studying it closely. I 64 Women in Love know Gerald is putting in a private electric plant, for lighting the house, and is making all kinds of latest improvements.

They hate him for it. He takes them all by the scruff of the neck, and fairly flings them along. The unfortunate thing is, where does his GO go to, what becomes of it? Oh yes! He and his brother were playing together with a gun. He told his brother to look down the gun, and it was loaded, and blew the top of his head off. You see it was an old thing that had been lying in Free eBooks at Planet eBook. Nobody dreamed it would ever go off, and of course, no one imagined it was loaded. Imagine it, two boys playing together—then this comes upon them, for no reason whatever—out of the air.

But I cannot see how that applies to a couple of boys playing together.

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Ursula at once hurried up and helped to lift the gate. Are you going for a walk? So beautiful—quite burning. Then they moved off, as if they had been dismissed like inferiors. The four women parted. Pure bullying. Hermione Roddice does risk herself in some respects. I suppose we ought to admire her for knowing she CAN invite us—school teachers—and risk nothing. I suppose, really, we should do the same, 68 Women in Love in her place.

It would bore me. You are perfectly beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful than ever she is or was, and to my thinking, a thousand times more beautifully dressed, for she never looks fresh and natural, like a flower, always old, thought-out; and we ARE more intelligent than most people. One longs to be high-flown, and make speeches like Corneille, after it. They make one feel so. The sisters went home again, to read and talk and work, and wait for Monday, for school.

Ursula often wondered what else she waited for, besides the beginning and end of the school week, and the beginning and end of the holidays. This was a whole life! Sometimes she had periods of tight horror, when it seemed to her that her life would pass away, and be gone, without having been more than this. But she never really accepted it. Her spirit was active, her life like a shoot that is growing steadily, but which has not yet come above ground.

He was not very fixed in his abode. He had rooms in Nottingham, because his work lay chiefly in that town. But often he was in London, or in Oxford. He moved about a great deal, his life seemed uncertain, without any definite rhythm, any organic meaning. On the platform of the railway station he saw Gerald Crich, reading a newspaper, and evidently waiting for the train.

Birkin stood some distance off, among the people.

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It was against his instinct to approach anybody. From time to time, in a manner characteristic of him, Gerald lifted his head and looked round. Even though he was reading the newspaper closely, he must keep a watchful eye on his external surroundings. There seemed to be a dual consciousness running in him.

He was thinking vigorously of something he read in the newspaper, and at the same time his eye ran over the surfaces of the life round him, and he missed nothing. Birkin, who was watching him, was irritated by his duality. He noticed too, that Gerald seemed always to be at bay against everybody, in spite of his queer, genial, social manner when roused. So are you, I suppose.

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Gerald looked at him quickly. Birkin glanced over his paper, then looked up at Gerald, who was waiting for him. Do you think we really want a new gospel? Birkin shrugged his shoulders. They want novelty right enough. Yes I do. I suppose you mean, reform the whole order of society? Birkin had a slight, tense frown between the brows. He too was impatient of the conversation. Until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for self-important people. Our one idea is to lie to ourselves. We have an ideal of a perfect world, clean and straight and sufficient.

So we cover the earth with foulness; life is a blotch of labour, like insects scurrying in filth, so that your collier can have a pianoforte in his parlour, and you can have a butler and a motor-car in your up-to-date house, and as a nation we can sport the Ritz, or the Empire, Gaby Deslys and the Sunday newspapers.

It is very dreary. People only do what they want to do—and what they are capable of doing. If they were capable of anything else, there would be something else. He was not going to take offence at Birkin. Amazing heights of upright grandeur. He sees himself reflected in the neighbouring opinion, like in a Brocken mist, several feet taller on the strength of the pianoforte, and he is satisfied. He lives for the sake of that Brocken spectre, the reflection of himself in the human opinion.

You do the same. If you are of high importance to humanity you are of high importance to yourself. That is why you work so hard at the mines. If you can produce coal to cook five thousand dinners a day, you are five thousand times more important than if you cooked only your own dinner.

Why should every man decline the whole verb. First person singular is enough for me. Which statement Birkin ignored. Apart from that, I live because I am living. Getting so many more thousands Free eBooks at Planet eBook. But he was cogitating too. Birkin watched him narrowly. He saw the perfect goodhumoured callousness, even strange, glistening malice, in Gerald, glistening through the plausible ethics of productivity. There are odd moments when I hate you starrily. He did not quite know what to say. Gerald watched him with curious eyes.

He could not quite make him out. There was a silence between the two men for some time, as the train ran on. Gerald watched him warily, carefully, rather calculatingly, for he could not decide what he was after. Again Gerald was taken aback. He could not think what his friend was getting at. The track itself resembles the form of the Mac command key. There is water in the form of a fishing hole. A track in space. It features the sun, Mercury, Venus, Earth, the moon, and Mars. Towers can not be placed in space. There is water on earth. A long track that looks like a Z made out of circles, hence the name.

No water, but bloons will take a while to exit the track. A track that proceeds through a hedge maze. Bloons will sometimes make a wrong turn and take a path to a dead end. A fountain is present at the center. This track is shaped like the "clubs" symbol on a playing card, and is surrounded by clovers. No water. A track full of water and some islands, hence the name.

There is a wrecked ship in the top corner of the track. A track in a hayfield. There are tracks in the hay that form the tracks that the bloons go on. No water here. A river that twists and curves in a serpentine pattern. There is not that much water, and there is quite a bit of land. A track based on a marina. There is tons of water, but less than Archipelago , and there are boats that towers can be placed on. Not much land is here. A countryside track. With 4 entrances and exits one at a time , this may cause us confusion as the bloons go up in the circle and go into the exit. It loops around the circle only one time so be prepared.

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