Page 320 - sons-and-lovers

He was afraid of her love for him. It was too good for him,
and he was inadequate. His own love was at fault, not hers.
Ashamed, he corrected her work, humbly writing above her
words.
‘Look,’ he said quietly, ‘the past participle conjugated
with avoir agrees with the direct object when it precedes.’
She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her
free, fine curls tickled his face. He started as if they had
been red hot, shuddering. He saw her peering forward at
the page, her red lips parted piteously, the black hair spring-
ing in fine strands across her tawny, ruddy cheek. She was
coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came
short as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her
dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid, and yearning.
His eyes, too, were dark, and they hurt her. They seemed to
master her. She lost all her self-control, was exposed in fear.
And he knew, before he could kiss her, he must drive some-
thing out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back
again into his heart. He returned to her exercise.
Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven
in a leap, turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick.
She started violently, and it hurt her with real pain. Even the
way he crouched before the oven hurt her. There seemed to
be something cruel in it, something cruel in the swift way
he pitched the bread out of the tins, caught it up again. If
only he had been gentle in his movements she would have
felt so rich and warm. As it was, she was hurt.
He returned and finished the exercise.
‘You’ve done well this week,’ he said.

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