Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           WhenthecrocuscomethforthItoowillemergeandseethesun!’InthewindofMarchendlessphrasessweptthroughherconsciousness.

           Littlegustsofsunshineblew,strangelybright,andlitupthecelandinesatthewood’sedge,underthehazel-rods,theyspangledoutbrightandyellow.Andthewoodwasstill,stiller,butyetgustywithcrossingsun.Thefirstwindflowerswereout,andallthewoodseemedpalewiththepallorofendlesslittleanemones,sprinklingtheshakenfloor.’Theworldhasgrownpalewiththybreath.’ButitwasthebreathofPersephone,thistime;shewasoutofhellonacoldmorning.Coldbreathsofwindcame,andoverheadtherewasanangerofentangledwindcaughtamongthetwigs.It,too,wascaughtandtryingtotearitselffree,thewind,likeAbsalom.Howcoldtheanemoneslooked,bobbingtheirnakedwhiteshouldersovercrinolineskirtsofgreen.Buttheystoodit.Afewfirstbleachedlittleprimrosestoo,bythepath,andyellowbudsunfoldingthemselves.

           Theroaringandswayingwasoverhead,onlycoldcurrentscamedownbelow.Conniewasstrangelyexcitedinthewood,andthecolourflewinhercheeks,andburnedblueinhereyes.Shewalkedploddingly,pickingafewprimrosesandthefirstviolets,thatsmelledsweetandcold,sweetandcold.Andshedriftedonwithoutknowingwhereshewas.

           Tillshecametotheclearing,attheendofthewood,andsawthegreen-stainedstonecottage,lookingalmostrosy,likethefleshunderneathamushroom,itsstonewarmedinaburstofsun.Andtherewasasparkleofyellowjasminebythedoor;thecloseddoor.