"
"But then--it does not matter if they do die."
Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumps of tangled
flowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, luminous
foam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing some
scent from the cowslips.
"I think," said Miriam, "if you treat them with reverence you don't do
them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters."
"Yes," he said. "But no, you get 'em because you want 'em, and that's
all." He held out his bunch.
Miriam was silent. He picked some more.
"Look at these!" he continued; "sturdy and lusty like little trees and
like boys with fat legs."
Clara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bending
forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, such
a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swung
slightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful and
strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering
a handful of cowslips over her hair and neck, saying:
"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
If the Lord won't have you the devil must.
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