Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Menwereverykindtothepersonshewas,butrathercrueltothefemale,despisingherorignoringheraltogether.MenwereawfullykindtoConstanceReidortoLadyChatterley;butnottoherwombtheyweren’tkind.AndhetooknonoticeofConstanceorofLadyChatterley;hejustsoftlystrokedherloinsorherbreasts.

           Shewenttothewoodnextday.Itwasagrey,stillafternoon,withthedark-greendogs-mercuryspreadingunderthehazelcopse,andallthetreesmakingasilentefforttoopentheirbuds.Todayshecouldalmostfeelitinherownbody,thehugeheaveofthesapinthemassivetrees,upwards,up,uptothebud-tips,theretopushintolittleflameyoak-leaves,bronzeasblood.Itwaslikeariderunningturgidupward,andspreadingonthesky.

           Shecametotheclearing,buthewasnotthere.Shehadonlyhalfexpectedhim.Thepheasantchickswererunninglightlyabroad,lightasinsects,fromthecoopswherethefellowhenscluckedanxiously.Conniesatandwatchedthem,andwaited.Sheonlywaited.Eventhechicksshehardlysaw.Shewaited.

           Thetimepassedwithdream-likeslowness,andhedidnotcome.Shehadonlyhalfexpectedhim.Henevercameintheafternoon.Shemustgohometotea.Butshehadtoforceherselftoleave.

           Asshewenthome,afinedrizzleofrainfell.

           ’Isitrainingagain?’saidClifford,seeinghershakeherhat.

           ’Justdrizzle.’

           Shepouredteainsilence,absorbedinasortofobstinacy.Shedidwanttoseethekeepertoday,toseeifitwerereallyreal.Ifitwerereallyreal.

           ’ShallIreadalittletoyouafterwards?’saidClifford.

           Shelookedathim.