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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 10/388
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He
wanted
to
say
something
later
to
Connie
about
the
demi
-
vierge
business
.
.
.
the
half
-
virgin
state
of
her
affairs
.
But
he
could
not
bring
himself
to
do
it
.
He
was
at
once
too
intimate
with
her
and
not
intimate
enough
.
He
was
so
very
much
at
one
with
her
,
in
his
mind
and
hers
,
but
bodily
they
were
non
-
existent
to
one
another
,
and
neither
could
bear
to
drag
in
the
corpus
delicti
.
They
were
so
intimate
,
and
utterly
out
of
touch
.
Connie
guessed
,
however
,
that
her
father
had
said
something
,
and
that
something
was
in
Clifford
’
s
mind
.
She
knew
that
he
didn
’
t
mind
whether
she
were
demi
-
vierge
or
demi
-
monde
,
so
long
as
he
didn
’
t
absolutely
know
,
and
wasn
’
t
made
to
see
.
What
the
eye
doesn
’
t
see
and
the
mind
doesn
’
t
know
,
doesn
’
t
exist
.
Connie
and
Clifford
had
now
been
nearly
two
years
at
Wragby
,
living
their
vague
life
of
absorption
in
Clifford
and
his
work
.
Their
interests
had
never
ceased
to
flow
together
over
his
work
.
They
talked
and
wrestled
in
the
throes
of
composition
,
and
felt
as
if
something
were
happening
,
really
happening
,
really
in
the
void
.
And
thus
far
it
was
a
life
:
in
the
void
.
For
the
rest
it
was
non
-
existence
.
Wragby
was
there
,
the
servants
.
.
.
but
spectral
,
not
really
existing
.
Connie
went
for
walks
in
the
park
,
and
in
the
woods
that
joined
the
park
,
and
enjoyed
the
solitude
and
the
mystery
,
kicking
the
brown
leaves
of
autumn
,
and
picking
the
primroses
of
spring
.
But
it
was
all
a
dream
;
or
rather
it
was
like
the
simulacrum
of
reality
.
The
oak
-
leaves
were
to
her
like
oak
-
leaves
seen
ruffling
in
a
mirror
,
she
herself
was
a
figure
somebody
had
read
about
,
picking
primroses
that
were
only
shadows
or
memories
,
or
words
.
No
substance
to
her
or
anything
.
.
.
no
touch
,
no
contact
!
Only
this
life
with
Clifford
,
this
endless
spinning
of
webs
of
yarn
,
of
the
minutiae
of
consciousness
,
these
stories
Sir
Malcolm
said
there
was
nothing
in
,
and
they
wouldn
’
t
last
.
Why
should
there
be
anything
in
them
,
why
should
they
last
?
Sufficient
unto
the
day
is
the
evil
thereof
.
Sufficient
unto
the
moment
is
the
appearance
of
reality
.
Clifford
had
quite
a
number
of
friends
,
acquaintances
really
,
and
he
invited
them
to
Wragby
.
He
invited
all
sorts
of
people
,
critics
and
writers
,
people
who
would
help
to
praise
his
books
.
And
they
were
flattered
at
being
asked
to
Wragby
,
and
they
praised
.
Connie
understood
it
all
perfectly
.
But
why
not
?
This
was
one
of
the
fleeting
patterns
in
the
mirror
.
What
was
wrong
with
it
?
She
was
hostess
to
these
people
.
.
.
mostly
men
.
She
was
hostess
also
to
Clifford
’
s
occasional
aristocratic
relations
.
Being
a
soft
,
ruddy
,
country
-
looking
girl
,
inclined
to
freckles
,
with
big
blue
eyes
,
and
curling
,
brown
hair
,
and
a
soft
voice
,
and
rather
strong
,
female
loins
she
was
considered
a
little
old
-
fashioned
and
’
womanly
’
.
She
was
not
a
’
little
pilchard
sort
of
fish
’
,
like
a
boy
,
with
a
boy
’
s
flat
breast
and
little
buttocks
.
She
was
too
feminine
to
be
quite
smart
.
So
the
men
,
especially
those
no
longer
young
,
were
very
nice
to
her
indeed
.
But
,
knowing
what
torture
poor
Clifford
would
feel
at
the
slightest
sign
of
flirting
on
her
part
,
she
gave
them
no
encouragement
at
all
.
She
was
quiet
and
vague
,
she
had
no
contact
with
them
and
intended
to
have
none
.
Clifford
was
extraordinarily
proud
of
himself
.
His
relatives
treated
her
quite
kindly
.
She
knew
that
the
kindliness
indicated
a
lack
of
fear
,
and
that
these
people
had
no
respect
for
you
unless
you
could
frighten
them
a
little
.
But
again
she
had
no
contact
.
She
let
them
be
kindly
and
disdainful
,
she
let
them
feel
they
had
no
need
to
draw
their
steel
in
readiness
.
She
had
no
real
connexion
with
them
.
