Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Uthwaitedowninthevalley,withallthesteelthreadsoftherailwaystoSheffielddrawnthroughit,andthecoal-minesandthesteel-workssendingupsmokeandglarefromlongtubes,andthepatheticlittlecorkscrewspireofthechurch,thatisgoingtotumbledown,stillprickingthefumes,alwaysaffectedConniestrangely.Itwasanoldmarket-town,centreofthedales.OneofthechiefinnswastheChatterleyArms.There,inUthwaite,WragbywasknownasWragby,asifitwereawholeplace,notjustahouse,asitwastooutsiders:WragbyHall,nearTevershall:Wragby,a’seat’.

           Theminers’cottages,blackened,stoodflushonthepavement,withthatintimacyandsmallnessofcolliers’dwellingsoverahundredyearsold.Theylinedalltheway.Theroadhadbecomeastreet,andasyousank,youforgotinstantlytheopen,rollingcountrywherethecastlesandbighousesstilldominated,butlikeghosts.Nowyouwerejustabovethetangleofnakedrailway-lines,andfoundriesandother’works’roseaboutyou,sobigyouwereonlyawareofwalls.Andironclankedwithahugereverberatingclank,andhugelorriesshooktheearth,andwhistlesscreamed.

           Yetagain,onceyouhadgotrightdownandintothetwistedandcrookedheartofthetown,behindthechurch,youwereintheworldoftwocenturiesago,inthecrookedstreetswheretheChatterleyArmsstood,andtheoldpharmacy,streetswhichusedtoleadOuttothewildopenworldofthecastlesandstatelycouchanthouses.

           Butatthecornerapolicemanhelduphishandasthreelorriesloadedwithironrolledpast,shakingthepooroldchurch.