“He shouldn’t be so silly when he has to be taken out,” Winifred was saying, putting out her hand and touching the rabbit tentatively, as it skulked under his arm, motionless as if it were dead.
“He’s not dead, is he Gerald?” she asked.
“No, he ought to be,” he said.
“Yes, he ought!” cried the child, with a sudden flush of amusement. And she touched the rabbit with more confidence. “His heart is beating so fast. Isn’t he funny? He really is.”
“Where do you want him?” asked Gerald.
“In the little green court,” she said.
Gudrun looked at Gerald with strange, darkened eyes, strained with underworld knowledge, almost supplicating, like those of a creature which is at his mercy, yet which is his ultimate victor. He did not know what to say to her. He felt the mutual hellish recognition. And he felt he ought to say something, to cover it. He had the power of lightning in his nerves, she seemed like a soft recipient of his magical, hideous white fire. He was unconfident, he had qualms of fear.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“He’s an insensible beast,” he said, turning his face away.