What you are is a foul, deathly thing, obscene, that's what you are, obscene and perverse.
You, and love!
You may well say, you don't want love.
No, you want YOURSELF, and dirt, and death—that's what you want.
You are so PERVERSE, so death-eating.
And then—'
'There's a bicycle coming,' he said, writhing under her loud denunciation.
She glanced down the road.
'I don't care,' she cried. Nevertheless she was silent.
The cyclist, having heard the voices raised in altercation, glanced curiously at the man, and the woman, and at the standing motor-car as he passed.
'—Afternoon,' he said, cheerfully.
'Good-afternoon,' replied Birkin coldly.
They were silent as the man passed into the distance.
A clearer look had come over Birkin's face.
He knew she was in the main right.
He knew he was perverse, so spiritual on the one hand, and in some strange way, degraded, on the other.
But was she herself any better?
Was anybody any better?
'It may all be true, lies and stink and all,' he said. 'But Hermione's spiritual intimacy is no rottener than your emotional-jealous intimacy.
One can preserve the decencies, even to one's enemies: for one's own sake.
Hermione is my enemy—to her last breath!
That's why I must bow her off the field.'
'You!
You and your enemies and your bows!
A pretty picture you make of yourself.
But it takes nobody in but yourself.
I JEALOUS!
I! What I say,' her voice sprang into flame, 'I say because it is TRUE, do you see, because you are YOU, a foul and false liar, a whited sepulchre.
That's why I say it.
And YOU hear it.'
'And be grateful,' he added, with a satirical grimace.
'Yes,' she cried, 'and if you have a spark of decency in you, be grateful.'
'Not having a spark of decency, however—' he retorted.
'No,' she cried, 'you haven't a SPARK.
And so you can go your way, and I'll go mine.
It's no good, not the slightest.
So you can leave me now, I don't want to go any further with you—leave me—'
'You don't even know where you are,' he said.
'Oh, don't bother, I assure you I shall be all right.
I've got ten shillings in my purse, and that will take me back from anywhere YOU have brought me to.'
She hesitated.
The rings were still on her fingers, two on her little finger, one on her ring finger.
Still she hesitated.
'Very good,' he said. 'The only hopeless thing is a fool.'
'You are quite right,' she said.
Still she hesitated.
Then an ugly, malevolent look came over her face, she pulled the rings from her fingers, and tossed them at him.
One touched his face, the others hit his coat, and they scattered into the mud.
'And take your rings,' she said, 'and go and buy yourself a female elsewhere—there are plenty to be had, who will be quite glad to share your spiritual mess,—or to have your physical mess, and leave your spiritual mess to Hermione.'
With which she walked away, desultorily, up the road.