Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           ThisdenudedplacealwaysmadeCliffordcuriouslyangry.Hehadbeenthroughthewar,hadseenwhatitmeant.Buthedidn’tgetreallyangrytillhesawthisbarehill.Hewashavingitreplanted.ButitmadehimhateSirGeoffrey.

           Cliffordsatwithafixedfaceasthechairslowlymounted.Whentheycametothetopoftherisehestopped;hewouldnotriskthelongandveryjoltydown-slope.Hesatlookingatthegreenishsweepoftheridingdownwards,aclearwaythroughthebrackenandoaks.Itswervedatthebottomofthehillanddisappeared;butithadsuchalovelyeasycurve,ofknightsridingandladiesonpalfreys.

           ’IconsiderthisisreallytheheartofEngland,’saidCliffordtoConnie,ashesatthereinthedimFebruarysunshine.

           ’Doyou?’shesaid,seatingherselfinherblueknitteddress,onastumpbythepath.

           ’Ido!thisistheoldEngland,theheartofit;andIintendtokeepitintact.’

           ’Ohyes!’saidConnie.But,asshesaiditsheheardtheeleven-o’clockhootersatStacksGatecolliery.Cliffordwastoousedtothesoundtonotice.

           ’Iwantthiswoodperfect...untouched.Iwantnobodytotrespassinit,’saidClifford.

           Therewasacertainpathos.Thewoodstillhadsomeofthemysteryofwild,oldEngland;butSirGeoffrey’scuttingsduringthewarhadgivenitablow.Howstillthetreeswere,withtheircrinkly,innumerabletwigsagainstthesky,andtheirgrey,obstinatetrunksrisingfromthebrownbracken!Howsafelythebirdsflittedamongthem!Andoncetherehadbeendeer,andarchers,andmonkspaddingalongonasses.Theplaceremembered,stillremembered.