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Updated: June 12, 2025
The poor people rose in confusion. But Mr Crich, pale and black-bearded and deprecating, came behind her, saying: 'Yes, I don't like you coming as late as this. I'll hear any of you in the morning part of the day, but I can't really do with you after. What's amiss then, Gittens. How is your Missis? 'Why, she's sunk very low, Mester Crich, she's a'most gone, she is
He would have no RAISON D'ETRE if there were no lugubrious miseries in the world, as an undertaker would have no meaning if there were no funerals. Mrs Crich recoiled back upon herself, she recoiled away from this world of creeping democracy.
'It is Gerald Crich, said Ursula. 'I know, replied Gudrun. 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.
But Gerald remained as if genial and happy, unaware that he was waiting or unoccupied, knowing himself the very pivot of the occasion. Suddenly Mrs Crich came noiselessly into the room, peering about with her strong, clear face. She was still wearing her hat, and her sac coat of blue silk. 'What is it, mother? said Gerald. 'Nothing, nothing! she answered vaguely.
She had a rapt, triumphant look, like the fallen angels restored, yet still subtly demoniacal, now she held Birkin by the arm. And he was expressionless, neutralised, possessed by her as if it were his fate, without question. Gerald Crich came, fair, good-looking, healthy, with a great reserve of energy.
They could hear the small locomotive panting hoarsely as it advanced with caution between the embankments. The one-legged man in the little signal-hut by the road stared out from his security, like a crab from a snail-shell. Whilst the two girls waited, Gerald Crich trotted up on a red Arab mare. He rode well and softly, pleased with the delicate quivering of the creature between his knees.
And then Ursula noticed again the dark, rather stooping figure of Mr Crich, waiting suspended on the path, watching with expressionless face the flight to the church. It was over, and he turned round to look behind him, at the figure of Rupert Birkin, who at once came forward and joined him. 'We'll bring up the rear, said Birkin, a faint smile on his face. 'Ay! replied the father laconically.
Then she recovered, turned, and came for towel and sponge. She was wiping the dead face carefully, and murmuring, almost whimpering, very softly: 'Poor Mr Crich! Poor Mr Crich! Poor Mr Crich! 'Is he dead? clanged Gerald's sharp voice. 'Oh yes, he's gone, replied the soft, moaning voice of the nurse, as she looked up at Gerald's face. She was young and beautiful and quivering.
Gudrun looked at her, and the two sisters burst out laughing, carried away. Loerke glanced at them swiftly, with his full eyes. Birkin was sniggering involuntarily. Gerald Crich sat erect, with a glistening look of amusement on his face.
'What thing? she asked in challenge. 'I don't know freedom together, he said. She had wanted him to say 'love. There was heard a loud barking of the dogs below. He seemed disturbed by it. She did not notice. Only she thought he seemed uneasy. 'As a matter of fact, he said, in rather a small voice, 'I believe that is Hermione come now, with Gerald Crich.
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