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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 225/388
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’
He
’
s
really
very
extraordinary
.
’
’
Possibly
!
But
he
bores
me
:
all
that
sophistication
!
He
doesn
’
t
have
feelings
,
he
only
has
streams
of
words
about
feelings
.
I
’
m
tired
of
self
-
important
mentalities
.
’
’
Would
you
prefer
self
-
important
animalities
?
’
’
Perhaps
!
But
one
might
possibly
get
something
that
wasn
’
t
self
-
important
.
’
’
Well
,
I
like
Proust
’
s
subtlety
and
his
well
-
bred
anarchy
.
’
’
It
makes
you
very
dead
,
really
.
’
’
There
speaks
my
evangelical
little
wife
.
’
They
were
at
it
again
,
at
it
again
!
But
she
couldn
’
t
help
fighting
him
.
He
seemed
to
sit
there
like
a
skeleton
,
sending
out
a
skeleton
’
s
cold
grizzly
will
against
her
.
Almost
she
could
feel
the
skeleton
clutching
her
and
pressing
her
to
its
cage
of
ribs
.
He
too
was
really
up
in
arms
:
and
she
was
a
little
afraid
of
him
She
went
upstairs
as
soon
as
possible
,
and
went
to
bed
quite
early
.
But
at
half
past
nine
she
got
up
,
and
went
outside
to
listen
.
There
was
no
sound
.
She
slipped
on
a
dressing
-
gown
and
went
downstairs
.
Clifford
and
Mrs
Bolton
were
playing
cards
,
gambling
.
They
would
probably
go
on
until
midnight
.
Connie
returned
to
her
room
,
threw
her
pyjamas
on
the
tossed
bed
,
put
on
a
thin
tennis
-
dress
and
over
that
a
woollen
day
-
dress
,
put
on
rubber
tennis
-
shoes
,
and
then
a
light
coat
.
And
she
was
ready
.
If
she
met
anybody
,
she
was
just
going
out
for
a
few
minutes
.
And
in
the
morning
,
when
she
came
in
again
,
she
would
just
have
been
for
a
little
walk
in
the
dew
,
as
she
fairly
often
did
before
breakfast
.
For
the
rest
,
the
only
danger
was
that
someone
should
go
into
her
room
during
the
night
.
But
that
was
most
unlikely
:
not
one
chance
in
a
hundred
.
