Page 576 - sons-and-lovers
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was gone. In the early sunny morning he ran to the station,
         crying all the way; he did not know what for. And her blue
         eyes were wide and staring as she thought of him.
            In the afternoon he went a walk with Clara. They sat in
         the little wood where bluebells were standing. He took her
         hand.
            ‘You’ll see,’ he said to Clara, ‘she’ll never be better.’
            ‘Oh, you don’t know!’ replied the other.
            ‘I do,’ he said.
            She caught him impulsively to her breast.
            ‘Try and forget it, dear,’ she said; ‘try and forget it.’
            ‘I will,’ he answered.
            Her breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in
         his hair. It was comforting, and he held his arms round her.
         But he did not forget. He only talked to Clara of something
         else. And it was always so. When she felt it coming, the ag-
         ony, she cried to him:
            ‘Don’t think of it, Paul! Don’t think of it, my darling!’
            And she pressed him to her breast, rocked him, soothed
         him like a child. So he put the trouble aside for her sake, to
         take it up again immediately he was alone. All the time, as
         he went about, he cried mechanically. His mind and hands
         were busy. He cried, he did not know why. It was his blood
         weeping. He was just as much alone whether he was with
         Clara or with the men in the White Horse. Just himself and
         this pressure inside him, that was all that existed. He read
         sometimes. He had to keep his mind occupied. And Clara
         was a way of occupying his mind.
            On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He was
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