She knew he intended it as such, and it bewildered her.
'And you,' she cried in retort, 'why do you always take your soul in your mouth, so frightfully full ?' 'So that I can spit it out the more readily,' he said, pleased by his own retort.
Gerald Crich, his face narrowing to an intent gleam, followed up the hill with quick strides, straight after Gudrun.

The cattle stood with their noses together on the brow of a slope, watching the scene below, the men in white hovering about the white forms of the women, watching above all Gudrun, who was advancing slowly towards them.

She stood a moment, glancing back at Gerald, and then at the cattle.
Then in a sudden motion, she lifted her arms and rushed sheer upon the long-horned bullocks, in shuddering irregular runs, pausing for a second and looking at them, then lifting her hands and running forward with a flash, till they ceased pawing the ground, and gave way, snorting with terror, lifting their heads from the ground and flinging themselves away, galloping off into the evening, becoming tiny in the distance, and still not stopping.
Gudrun remained staring after them, with a mask-like defiant face.
'Why do you want to drive them mad ?' asked Gerald, coming up with her.
She took no notice of him, only averted her face from him.

'It's not safe, you know,' he persisted.

'They're nasty, when they do turn.' 'Turn where?
Turn away ?' she mocked loudly.
'No,' he said, 'turn against you.' 'Turn against ME ?' she mocked.
He could make nothing of this.
'Anyway, they gored one of the farmer's cows to death, the other day,' he said.
'What do I care ?' she said.
'I cared though,' he replied, 'seeing that they're my cattle.' 'How are they yours! You haven't swallowed them.