Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Allhopesofeternityandallgainfromthepasthewouldhavegiventohaveherthere,tobewrappedwarmwithhiminoneblanket,andsleep,onlysleep.Itseemedthesleepwiththewomaninhisarmswastheonlynecessity.

           Hewenttothehut,andwrappedhimselfintheblanketandlayonthefloortosleep.Buthecouldnot,hewascold.Andbesides,hefeltcruellyhisownunfinishednature.Hefelthisownunfinishedconditionofalonenesscruelly.Hewantedher,totouchher,toholdherfastagainsthiminonemomentofcompletenessandsleep.

           Hegotupagainandwentout,towardstheparkgatesthistime:thenslowlyalongthepathtowardsthehouse.Itwasnearlyfouro’clock,stillclearandcold,butnosignofdawn.Hewasusedtothedark,hecouldseewell.

           Slowly,slowlythegreathousedrewhim,asamagnet.Hewantedtobenearher.Itwasnotdesire,notthat.Itwasthecruelsenseofunfinishedaloneness,thatneededasilentwomanfoldedinhisarms.Perhapshecouldfindher.Perhapshecouldevencallherouttohim:orfindsomewayintoher.Fortheneedwasimperious.

           Heslowly,silentlyclimbedtheinclinetothehall.Thenhecameroundthegreattreesatthetopoftheknoll,ontothedrive,whichmadeagrandsweeproundalozengeofgrassinfrontoftheentrance.Hecouldalreadyseethetwomagnificentbeecheswhichstoodinthisbiglevellozengeinfrontofthehouse,detachingthemselvesdarklyinthedarkair.

           Therewasthehouse,lowandlongandobscure,withonelightburningdownstairs,inSirClifford’sroom.