`It is fatal to use the will like that,' cried Birkin harshly, `disgusting. Such a will is an obscenity.'
Hermione looked at him for a long time, with her shadowed, heavy eyes. Her face was soft and pale and thin, almost phosphorescent, her jaw was lean.
`I'm sure it isn't,' she said at length. There always seemed an interval, a strange split between what she seemed to feel and experience, and what she actually said and thought. She seemed to catch her thoughts at length from off the surface of a maelstrom of chaotic black emotions and reactions, and Birkin was always filled with repulsion, she caught so infallibly, her will never failed her. Her voice was always dispassionate and tense, and perfectly confident. Yet she shuddered with a sense of nausea, a sort of seasickness that always threatened to overwhelm her mind. But her mind remained unbroken, her will was still perfect. It almost sent Birkin mad. But he would never, never dare to break her will, and let loose the maelstrom of her subconsciousness, and see her in her ultimate madness. Yet he was always striking at her.
`And of course,' he said to Gerald, `horses haven't got a complete will, like human beings. A horse has no one will. Every horse, strictly, has two wills. With one will, it wants to put itself in the human power completely -- and with the other, it wants to be free, wild. The two wills sometimes lock -- you know that, if ever you've felt a horse bolt, while you've been driving it.'
`I have felt a horse bolt while I was driving it,' said Gerald, `but it didn't make me know it had two wills. I only knew it was frightened.'
Hermione had ceased to listen. She simply became oblivious when these subjects were started.
`Why should a horse want to put itself in the human power?' asked Ursula. `That is quite incomprehensible to me. I don't believe it ever wanted it.'
`Yes it did. It's the last, perhaps highest, love-impulse: resign your will to the higher being,' said Birkin.
`What curious notions you have of love,' jeered Ursula.
`And woman is the same as horses: two wills act in opposition inside her. With one will, she wants to subject herself utterly. With the other she wants to bolt, and pitch her rider to perdition.'
`Then I'm a bolter,' said Ursula, with a burst of laughter.
`It's a dangerous thing to domesticate even horses, let alone women,' said Birkin. `The dominant principle has some rare antagonists.'