ace.

'Oh, I can't say,' Gerald replied. 'Till we get tired of it.'

'You're not afraid of the snow melting first?' asked Birkin.

Gerald laughed.

'Does it melt?' he said.

'Things are all right with you then?' said Birkin.

Gerald screwed up his eyes a little.

'All right?' he said. 'I never know what those common words mean. All
right and all wrong, don't they become synonymous, somewhere?'

'Yes, I suppose. How about going back?' asked Birkin.

'Oh, I don't know. We may never get back. I don't look before and
after,' said Gerald.

'NOR pine for what is not,' said Birkin.

Gerald looked into the distance, with the small-pupilled, abstract eyes
of a hawk.

'No. There's something final about this. And Gudrun seems like the end,
to me. I don't know--but she seems so soft, her skin like silk, her
arms heavy and soft. And it withers my consciousness, somehow, it burns
the pith of my mind.' He went on a few paces, staring ahead, his eyes
fixed, looking like a mask used in ghastly religions of the barbarians.
'It blasts your soul's eye,' he said, 'and leaves you sightless. Yet
you WANT to be sightless, you WANT to be blasted, you don't want it any
different.'

He was speaking as if in a trance, verbal and blank. Then suddenly he
braced himself up with a kind of rhapsody, and looked at Birkin with
vindictive, cowed eyes, saying:

'Do you know what it is to suffer when you are with a woman? She's so
beautiful, so perfect, you find her SO GOOD, it tears you like a silk,
and every stroke and bit cuts hot--ha, that perfection, when you blast
yourself, you blast yourself! And then--' he stopped on the snow and
suddenly opened his clenched hands--'it's nothing--your brain might
have gone charred as rags--and--' he looked round into the air with a
queer histrionic movement 'it's blasting--you understand what I
mean--it is a great experience, something final--and then--you're
shrivelled as if struck by electricity.' He walked on in silence. It
seemed like bragging, but like a man in extremity bragging truthfully.

'Of course,' he resumed, 'I wouldn't NOT have had it! It's a complete
experience. And she's a wonderful woman. But--how I hate her somewhere!
It's curious--'

Birkin looked at him, at his strange, scarcely conscious face. Gerald
seemed blank before his own words.

'But you've had enough now?' said Birkin. 'You have had your
experience. Why work on an old wound?'

'Oh,' said Gerald, 'I don't know. It