Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           ’Themanglancedroundforhisdog...athoughtfulglance.Thespaniellookedathimandfaintlymoveditstail.Alittlesmile,mockingorteasingher,yetgentle,cameintohiseyesforamoment,thenfadedaway,andhisfacewasexpressionless.Theywentfairlyquicklydowntheslope,themanwithhishandontherailofthechair,steadyingit.Helookedlikeafreesoldierratherthanaservant.AndsomethingabouthimremindedConnieofTommyDukes.

           Whentheycametothehazelgrove,Conniesuddenlyranforward,andopenedthegateintothepark.Asshestoodholdingit,thetwomenlookedatherinpassing,Cliffordcritically,theothermanwithacurious,coolwonder;impersonallywantingtoseewhatshelookedlike.Andshesawinhisblue,impersonaleyesalookofsufferinganddetachment,yetacertainwarmth.Butwhywashesoaloof,apart?

           Cliffordstoppedthechair,oncethroughthegate,andthemancamequickly,courteously,tocloseit.

           ’Whydidyouruntoopen?’askedCliffordinhisquiet,calmvoice,thatshowedhewasdispleased.’Mellorswouldhavedoneit.’

           ’Ithoughtyouwouldgostraightahead,’saidConnie.

           ’Andleaveyoutorunafterus?’saidClifford.

           ’Oh,well,Iliketorunsometimes!’

           Mellorstookthechairagain,lookingperfectlyunheeding,yetConniefelthenotedeverything.Ashepushedthechairupthesteepishriseoftheknollinthepark,hebreathedratherquickly,throughpartedlips.Hewasratherfrailreally.Curiouslyfullofvitality,butalittlefrailandquenched.Herwoman’sinstinctsensedit.

           Conniefellback,letthechairgoon.