Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Butnosound;nosmokefromthechimney;nodogbarking.

           Shewentquietlyroundtotheback,wherethebankroseup;shehadanexcuse,toseethedaffodils.

           Andtheywerethere,theshort-stemmedflowers,rustlingandflutteringandshivering,sobrightandalive,butwithnowheretohidetheirfaces,astheyturnedthemawayfromthewind.

           Theyshooktheirbright,sunnylittleragsinboutsofdistress.Butperhapstheylikeditreally;perhapstheyreallylikedthetossing.

           Constancesatdownwithherbacktoayoungpine-tree,thatswayedagainstherwithcuriouslife,elastic,andpowerful,risingup.Theerect,alivething,withitstopinthesun!Andshewatchedthedaffodilsturngolden,inaburstofsunthatwaswarmonherhandsandlap.Evenshecaughtthefaint,tarryscentoftheflowers.Andthen,beingsostillandalone,sheseemedtobetintothecurrentofherownproperdestiny.Shehadbeenfastenedbyarope,andjaggingandsnarringlikeaboatatitsmoorings;nowshewaslooseandadrift.

           Thesunshinegavewaytochill;thedaffodilswereinshadow,dippingsilently.Sotheywoulddipthroughthedayandthelongcoldnight.Sostrongintheirfrailty!

           Sherose,alittlestiff,tookafewdaffodils,andwentdown.Shehatedbreakingtheflowers,butshewantedjustoneortwotogowithher.ShewouldhavetogobacktoWragbyanditswalls,andnowshehatedit,especiallyitsthickwalls.Walls!Alwayswalls!Yetoneneededtheminthiswind.