after all—you see what I mean, Ursula—they might have been two men arranging an outing with some little type they’d picked up. Oh, I think it’s unforgivable, quite!” She used the French word “type.”
Her eyes flashed, her soft face was flushed and sullen. Ursula looked on, rather frightened, frightened most of all because she thought Gudrun seemed rather common, really like a little type. But she had not the courage quite to think this—not right out.
“Oh no,” she cried, stammering. “Oh no—not at all like that—oh no! No, I think it’s rather beautiful, the friendship between Rupert and Gerald. They just are simple—they say anything to each other, like brothers.”
Gudrun flushed deeper. She could not bear it that Gerald gave her away—even to Birkin.
“But do you think even brothers have any right to exchange confidences of that sort?” she asked, with deep anger.