“And part of me wants something else,” said Gerald, in a queer, quiet, real voice.
“What?” said Birkin, rather surprised.
“That’s what I hoped you could tell me,” said Gerald.
There was a silence for some time.
“I can’t tell you—I can’t find my own way, let alone yours. You might marry,” Birkin replied.
“Who—the Pussum?” asked Gerald.
“Perhaps,” said Birkin. And he rose and went to the window.
“That is your panacea,” said Gerald. “But you haven’t even tried it on yourself yet, and you are sick enough.”
“I am,” said Birkin. “Still, I shall come right.”
“Through marriage?”