Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Butevenonwindlessdaystheairalwayssmeltofsomethingunder-earth:sulphur,iron,coal,oracid.AndevenontheChristmasrosesthesmutssettledpersistently,incredible,likeblackmannafromtheskiesofdoom.

           Well,thereitwas:fatedliketherestofthings!Itwasratherawful,butwhykick?Youcouldn’tkickitaway.Itjustwenton.Life,likealltherest!Onthelowdarkceilingofcloudatnightredblotchesburnedandquavered,dapplingandswellingandcontracting,likeburnsthatgivepain.Itwasthefurnaces.AtfirsttheyfascinatedConniewithasortofhorror;shefeltshewaslivingunderground.Thenshegotusedtothem.Andinthemorningitrained.

           CliffordprofessedtolikeWragbybetterthanLondon.Thiscountryhadagrimwillofitsown,andthepeoplehadguts.Conniewonderedwhatelsetheyhad:certainlyneithereyesnorminds.Thepeoplewereashaggard,shapeless,anddrearyasthecountryside,andasunfriendly.Onlytherewassomethingintheirdeep-mouthedslurringofthedialect,andthethresh-threshoftheirhob-nailedpit-bootsastheytrailedhomeingangsontheasphaltfromwork,thatwasterribleandabitmysterious.

           Therehadbeennowelcomehomefortheyoungsquire,nofestivities,nodeputation,notevenasingleflower.Onlyadankrideinamotor-carupadark,dampdrive,burrowingthroughgloomytrees,outtotheslopeoftheparkwheregreydampsheepwerefeeding,totheknollwherethehousespreaditsdarkbrownfacade,andthehousekeeperandherhusbandwerehovering,likeunsuretenantsonthefaceoftheearth,readytostammerawelcome.