Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Thedayhadgreyedover;thesmallblueskythathadpoisedlowonitscircularrimsofhazewasclosedinagain,thelidwasdown,therewasarawcoldness.Itwasgoingtosnow.Allgrey,allgrey!theworldlookedwornout.

           Thechairwaitedatthetopofthepinkpath.CliffordlookedroundforConnie.

           ’Nottired,areyou?’hesaid.

           ’Oh,no!’shesaid.

           Butshewas.Astrange,wearyyearning,adissatisfactionhadstartedinher.Clifforddidnotnotice:thosewerenotthingshewasawareof.Butthestrangerknew.ToConnie,everythinginherworldandlifeseemedwornout,andherdissatisfactionwasolderthanthehills.

           Theycametothehouse,andaroundtotheback,wheretherewerenosteps.Cliffordmanagedtoswinghimselfoverontothelow,wheeledhouse-chair;hewasverystrongandagilewithhisarms.ThenConnieliftedtheburdenofhisdeadlegsafterhim.

           Thekeeper,waitingatattentiontobedismissed,watchedeverythingnarrowly,missingnothing.Hewentpale,withasortoffear,whenhesawConnieliftingtheinertlegsofthemaninherarms,intotheotherchair,Cliffordpivotingroundasshedidso.Hewasfrightened.

           ’Thanks,then,forthehelp,Mellors,’saidCliffordcasually,ashebegantowheeldownthepassagetotheservants’quarters.

           ’Nothingelse,Sir?’cametheneutralvoice,likeoneinadream.

           ’Nothing,goodmorning!’

           ’Goodmorning,Sir.’

           ’Goodmorning!itwaskindofyoutopushthechairupthathill...Ihopeitwasn’theavyforyou,’saidConnie,lookingbackatthekeeperoutsidethedoor.

           Hiseyescametohersinaninstant,asifwakenedup.