Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           ThewoodwasaremnantofthegreatforestwhereRobinHoodhunted,andthisridingwasanold,oldthoroughfarecomingacrosscountry.Butnow,ofcourse,itwasonlyaridingthroughtheprivatewood.TheroadfromMansfieldswervedroundtothenorth.

           Inthewoodeverythingwasmotionless,theoldleavesonthegroundkeepingthefrostontheirunderside.Ajaycalledharshly,manylittlebirdsfluttered.Buttherewasnogame;nopheasants.Theyhadbeenkilledoffduringthewar,andthewoodhadbeenleftunprotected,tillnowCliffordhadgothisgame-keeperagain.

           Cliffordlovedthewood;helovedtheoldoak-trees.Hefelttheywerehisownthroughgenerations.Hewantedtoprotectthem.Hewantedthisplaceinviolate,shutofffromtheworld.

           Thechairchuffedslowlyuptheincline,rockingandjoltingonthefrozenclods.Andsuddenly,ontheleft,cameaclearingwheretherewasnothingbutaravelofdeadbracken,athinandspindlysaplingleaninghereandthere,bigsawnstumps,showingtheirtopsandtheirgraspingroots,lifeless.Andpatchesofblacknesswherethewoodmenhadburnedthebrushwoodandrubbish.

           ThiswasoneoftheplacesthatSirGeoffreyhadcutduringthewarfortrenchtimber.Thewholeknoll,whichrosesoftlyontherightoftheriding,wasdenudedandstrangelyforlorn.Onthecrownoftheknollwheretheoakshadstood,nowwasbareness;andfromthereyoucouldlookoutoverthetreestothecollieryrailway,andthenewworksatStacksGate.Conniehadstoodandlooked,itwasabreachinthepureseclusionofthewood.Itletintheworld.Butshedidn’ttellClifford.