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As a matter of fact, even if it were as Gudrun said, about Birkin, other things were true as well. But Gudrun would draw two lines under him and cross him out like an account that is settled. There he was, summed up, paid for, settled, done with. And it was such a lie. This finality of Gudrun's, this dispatching of people and things in a sentence, it was all such a lie.
He did not take the man seriously, he despised him merely, except as he felt in Gudrun's veins the influence of the little creature. It was this that drove Gerald wild, the feeling in Gudrun's veins of Loerke's presence, Loerke's being, flowing dominant through her. 'What makes you so smitten with that little vermin? he asked, really puzzled.
And all the while Gudrun could see in Gerald an arrogant English contempt for a foreigner. Although Gerald was quivering, his eyes flashing, his face flushed, in his argument there was a brusqueness, a savage contempt in his manner, that made Gudrun's blood flare up, and made Loerke keen and mortified.
It was as if he belonged naturally to dread and catastrophe, as if he were himself again. Then there came a child's voice, a girl's high, piercing shriek: 'Di Di Di Di Oh Di Oh Di Oh Di! The blood ran cold in Gudrun's veins. 'It's Diana, is it, muttered Gerald. 'The young monkey, she'd have to be up to some of her tricks.
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