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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 125/388
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So
!
He
still
had
not
been
.
He
was
staying
away
on
purpose
.
Or
perhaps
something
was
wrong
.
Perhaps
she
should
go
to
the
cottage
and
see
.
But
she
was
born
to
wait
.
She
opened
the
hut
with
her
key
.
It
was
all
tidy
,
the
corn
put
in
the
bin
,
the
blankets
folded
on
the
shelf
,
the
straw
neat
in
a
corner
;
a
new
bundle
of
straw
.
The
hurricane
lamp
hung
on
a
nail
.
The
table
and
chair
had
been
put
back
where
she
had
lain
.
She
sat
down
on
a
stool
in
the
doorway
.
How
still
everything
was
!
The
fine
rain
blew
very
softly
,
filmily
,
but
the
wind
made
no
noise
.
Nothing
made
any
sound
.
The
trees
stood
like
powerful
beings
,
dim
,
twilit
,
silent
and
alive
.
How
alive
everything
was
!
Night
was
drawing
near
again
;
she
would
have
to
go
.
He
was
avoiding
her
.
But
suddenly
he
came
striding
into
the
clearing
,
in
his
black
oilskin
jacket
like
a
chauffeur
,
shining
with
wet
.
He
glanced
quickly
at
the
hut
,
half
-
saluted
,
then
veered
aside
and
went
on
to
the
coops
.
There
he
crouched
in
silence
,
looking
carefully
at
everything
,
then
carefully
shutting
the
hens
and
chicks
up
safe
against
the
night
.
At
last
he
came
slowly
towards
her
.
She
still
sat
on
her
stool
.
He
stood
before
her
under
the
porch
.
’
You
come
then
,
’
he
said
,
using
the
intonation
of
the
dialect
.
’
Yes
,
’
she
said
,
looking
up
at
him
.
’
You
’
re
late
!
’
’
Ay
!
’
he
replied
,
looking
away
into
the
wood
.
