on. Her father had to learn not to see her blithe
obliviousness, or it would have sent him mad. She was so radiant with
all things, in her possession of perfect hostility.

She would go on now for days like this, in this bright frank state of
seemingly pure spontaneity, so essentially oblivious of the existence
of anything but herself, but so ready and facile in her interest. Ah it
was a bitter thing for a man to be near her, and her father cursed his
fatherhood. But he must learn not to see her, not to know.

She was perfectly stable in resistance when she was in this state: so
bright and radiant and attractive in her pure opposition, so very pure,
and yet mistrusted by everybody, disliked on every hand. It was her
voice, curiously clear and repellent, that gave her away. Only Gudrun
was in accord with her. It was at these times that the intimacy between
the two sisters was most complete, as if their intelligence were one.
They felt a strong, bright bond of understanding between them,
surpassing everything else. And during all these days of blind bright
abstraction and intimacy of his two daughters, the father seemed to
breathe an air of death, as if he were destroyed in his very being. He
was irritable to madness, he could not rest, his daughters seemed to be
destroying him. But he was inarticulate and helpless against them. He
was forced to breathe the air of his own death. He cursed them in his
soul, and only wanted, that they should be removed from him.

They continued radiant in their easy female transcendancy, beautiful to
look at. They exchanged confidences, they were intimate in their
revelations to the last degree, giving each other at last every secret.
They withheld nothing, they told everything, till they were over the
border of evil. And they armed each other with knowledge, they
extracted the subtlest flavours from the apple of knowledge. It was
curious how their knowledge was complementary, that of each to that of
the other.

Ursula saw her men as sons, pitied their yearning and admired their
courage, and wondered over them as a mother wonders over her child,
with a certain delight in their novelty. But to Gudrun, they were the
opposite camp. She feared them and despised them, and respected their
activities even overmuch.

'Of course,' she said easily, 'there is a quality of life in Birkin
which is quite remarkable. There is an extraordinary rich spring of
life in him, really amazing, the way he can