Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           ’Shallweplayagame,orshallIreadtoyou,orwhatshallitbe?’heaskeduneasily.

           ’Youreadtome,’saidConnie.

           ’WhatshallIread--verseorprose?Ordrama?’

           ’ReadRacine,’shesaid.

           Ithadbeenoneofhisstuntsinthepast,toreadRacineintherealFrenchgrandmanner,buthewasrustynow,andalittleself-conscious;hereallypreferredtheloudspeaker.ButConniewassewing,sewingalittlefrockofprimrosesilk,cutoutofoneofherdresses,forMrsFlint’sbaby.Betweencominghomeanddinnershehadcutitout,andshesatinthesoftquiescentraptureofherselfsewing,whilethenoiseofthereadingwenton.

           Insideherselfshecouldfeelthehummingofpassion,liketheafter-hummingofdeepbells.

           CliffordsaidsomethingtoherabouttheRacine.Shecaughtthesenseafterthewordshadgone.

           ’Yes!Yes!’shesaid,lookingupathim.’Itissplendid.’

           Againhewasfrightenedatthedeepblueblazeofhereyes,andofhersoftstillness,sittingthere.Shehadneverbeensoutterlysoftandstill.Shefascinatedhimhelplessly,asifsomeperfumeaboutherintoxicatedhim.Sohewentonhelplesslywithhisreading,andthethroatysoundoftheFrenchwaslikethewindinthechimneystoher.OftheRacinesheheardnotonesyllable.

           Shewasgoneinherownsoftrapture,likeaforestsoughingwiththedim,gladmoanofspring,movingintobud.Shecouldfeelinthesameworldwithhertheman,thenamelessman,movingonbeautifulfeet,beautifulinthephallicmystery.Andinherselfinallherveins,shefelthimandhischild.