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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 147/388
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’
What
shall
I
read
-
-
verse
or
prose
?
Or
drama
?
’
’
Read
Racine
,
’
she
said
.
It
had
been
one
of
his
stunts
in
the
past
,
to
read
Racine
in
the
real
French
grand
manner
,
but
he
was
rusty
now
,
and
a
little
self
-
conscious
;
he
really
preferred
the
loudspeaker
.
But
Connie
was
sewing
,
sewing
a
little
frock
of
primrose
silk
,
cut
out
of
one
of
her
dresses
,
for
Mrs
Flint
’
s
baby
.
Between
coming
home
and
dinner
she
had
cut
it
out
,
and
she
sat
in
the
soft
quiescent
rapture
of
herself
sewing
,
while
the
noise
of
the
reading
went
on
.
Inside
herself
she
could
feel
the
humming
of
passion
,
like
the
after
-
humming
of
deep
bells
.
Clifford
said
something
to
her
about
the
Racine
.
She
caught
the
sense
after
the
words
had
gone
.
’
Yes
!
Yes
!
’
she
said
,
looking
up
at
him
.
’
It
is
splendid
.
’
Again
he
was
frightened
at
the
deep
blue
blaze
of
her
eyes
,
and
of
her
soft
stillness
,
sitting
there
.
She
had
never
been
so
utterly
soft
and
still
.
She
fascinated
him
helplessly
,
as
if
some
perfume
about
her
intoxicated
him
.
So
he
went
on
helplessly
with
his
reading
,
and
the
throaty
sound
of
the
French
was
like
the
wind
in
the
chimneys
to
her
.
Of
the
Racine
she
heard
not
one
syllable
.
She
was
gone
in
her
own
soft
rapture
,
like
a
forest
soughing
with
the
dim
,
glad
moan
of
spring
,
moving
into
bud
.
She
could
feel
in
the
same
world
with
her
the
man
,
the
nameless
man
,
moving
on
beautiful
feet
,
beautiful
in
the
phallic
mystery
.
And
in
herself
in
all
her
veins
,
she
felt
him
and
his
child
.
His
child
was
in
all
her
veins
,
like
a
twilight
.
’
For
hands
she
hath
none
,
nor
eyes
,
nor
feet
,
nor
golden
Treasure
of
hair
.
.
.
’
