Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           ’

           Connielookedathimwithdazedeyes.

           ’Won’tyoucomeon?’shesaid.

           Andhestartedhischair.Hehadsaidhissay.Nowhelapsedintohispeculiarandrathervacantapathy,thatConniefoundsotrying.Inthewood,anyhow,shewasdeterminednottoargue.

           Infrontofthemrantheopencleftoftheriding,betweenthehazelwallsandthegaygreytrees.Thechairpuffedslowlyon,slowlysurgingintotheforget-me-notsthatroseupinthedrivelikemilkfroth,beyondthehazelshadows.Cliffordsteeredthemiddlecourse,wherefeetpassinghadkeptachannelthroughtheflowers.ButConnie,walkingbehind,hadwatchedthewheelsjoltoverthewood-ruffandthebugle,andsquashthelittleyellowcupsofthecreeping-jenny.Nowtheymadeawakethroughtheforget-me-nots.

           Alltheflowerswerethere,thefirstbluebellsinbluepools,likestandingwater.

           ’Youarequiterightaboutitsbeingbeautiful,’saidClifford.’Itissoamazingly.WhatisquitesolovelyasanEnglishspring!’

           ConniethoughtitsoundedasifeventhespringbloomedbyactofParliament.AnEnglishspring!WhynotanIrishone?orJewish?Thechairmovedslowlyahead,pasttuftsofsturdybluebellsthatstooduplikewheatandovergreyburdockleaves.Whentheycametotheopenplacewherethetreeshadbeenfelled,thelightfloodedinratherstark.Andthebluebellsmadesheetsofbrightbluecolour,hereandthere,sheeringoffintolilacandpurple.Andbetween,thebrackenwasliftingitsbrowncurledheads,likelegionsofyoungsnakeswithanewsecrettowhispertoEve.