Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Shewouldcomeinherdressinggown,withherhairinaplaitdownherback,curiouslygirlishanddim,thoughthebrownplaitwasstreakedwithgrey.Andshewouldmakehimcoffeeorcamomiletea,andshewouldplaychessorpiquetwithhim.Shehadawoman’squeerfacultyofplayingevenchesswellenough,whenshewasthreepartsasleep,wellenoughtomakeherworthbeating.So,inthesilentintimacyofthenight,theysat,orshesatandhelayonthebed,withthereading-lampsheddingitssolitarylightonthem,shealmostgoneinsleep,healmostgoneinasortoffear,andtheyplayed,playedtogether--thentheyhadacupofcoffeeandabiscuittogether,hardlyspeaking,inthesilenceofnight,butbeingareassurancetooneanother.

           AndthisnightshewaswonderingwhoLadyChatterley’sloverwas.AndshewasthinkingofherownTed,solongdead,yetforherneverquitedead.Andwhenshethoughtofhim,theold,oldgrudgeagainsttheworldroseup,butespeciallyagainstthemasters,thattheyhadkilledhim.Theyhadnotreallykilledhim.Yet,toher,emotionally,theyhad.Andsomewheredeepinherselfbecauseofit,shewasanihilist,andreallyanarchic.

           Inherhalf-sleep,thoughtsofherTedandthoughtsofLadyChatterley’sunknownlovercommingled,andthenshefeltshesharedwiththeotherwomanagreatgrudgeagainstSirCliffordandallhestoodfor.Atthesametimeshewasplayingpiquetwithhim,andtheyweregamblingsixpences.Anditwasasourceofsatisfactiontobeplayingpiquetwithabaronet,andevenlosingsixpencestohim.

           Whentheyplayedcards,theyalwaysgambled.