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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 32/388
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There
’
s
no
woman
I
can
really
want
when
I
’
m
faced
with
her
,
and
I
’
m
not
going
to
start
forcing
myself
to
it
.
.
.
My
God
,
no
!
I
’
ll
remain
as
I
am
,
and
lead
the
mental
life
.
It
’
s
the
only
honest
thing
I
can
do
.
I
can
be
quite
happy
talking
to
women
;
but
it
’
s
all
pure
,
hopelessly
pure
.
Hopelessly
pure
!
What
do
you
say
,
Hildebrand
,
my
chicken
?
’
’
It
’
s
much
less
complicated
if
one
stays
pure
,
’
said
Berry
.
’
Yes
,
life
is
all
too
simple
!
’
On
a
frosty
morning
with
a
little
February
sun
,
Clifford
and
Connie
went
for
a
walk
across
the
park
to
the
wood
.
That
is
,
Clifford
chuffed
in
his
motor
-
chair
,
and
Connie
walked
beside
him
.
The
hard
air
was
still
sulphurous
,
but
they
were
both
used
to
it
.
Round
the
near
horizon
went
the
haze
,
opalescent
with
frost
and
smoke
,
and
on
the
top
lay
the
small
blue
sky
;
so
that
it
was
like
being
inside
an
enclosure
,
always
inside
.
Life
always
a
dream
or
a
frenzy
,
inside
an
enclosure
.
The
sheep
coughed
in
the
rough
,
sere
grass
of
the
park
,
where
frost
lay
bluish
in
the
sockets
of
the
tufts
.
Across
the
park
ran
a
path
to
the
wood
-
gate
,
a
fine
ribbon
of
pink
.
Clifford
had
had
it
newly
gravelled
with
sifted
gravel
from
the
pit
-
bank
.
When
the
rock
and
refuse
of
the
underworld
had
burned
and
given
off
its
sulphur
,
it
turned
bright
pink
,
shrimp
-
coloured
on
dry
days
,
darker
,
crab
-
coloured
on
wet
.
Now
it
was
pale
shrimp
-
colour
,
with
a
bluish
-
white
hoar
of
frost
.
It
always
pleased
Connie
,
this
underfoot
of
sifted
,
bright
pink
.
It
’
s
an
ill
wind
that
brings
nobody
good
.
Clifford
steered
cautiously
down
the
slope
of
the
knoll
from
the
hall
,
and
Connie
kept
her
hand
on
the
chair
.
In
front
lay
the
wood
,
the
hazel
thicket
nearest
,
the
purplish
density
of
oaks
beyond
.
From
the
wood
’
s
edge
rabbits
bobbed
and
nibbled
.
Rooks
suddenly
rose
in
a
black
train
,
and
went
trailing
off
over
the
little
sky
.
Connie
opened
the
wood
-
gate
,
and
Clifford
puffed
slowly
through
into
the
broad
riding
that
ran
up
an
incline
between
the
clean
-
whipped
thickets
of
the
hazel
.
The
wood
was
a
remnant
of
the
great
forest
where
Robin
Hood
hunted
,
and
this
riding
was
an
old
,
old
thoroughfare
coming
across
country
.
But
now
,
of
course
,
it
was
only
a
riding
through
the
private
wood
.
The
road
from
Mansfield
swerved
round
to
the
north
.
In
the
wood
everything
was
motionless
,
the
old
leaves
on
the
ground
keeping
the
frost
on
their
underside
.
A
jay
called
harshly
,
many
little
birds
fluttered
.
But
there
was
no
game
;
no
pheasants
.
They
had
been
killed
off
during
the
war
,
and
the
wood
had
been
left
unprotected
,
till
now
Clifford
had
got
his
game
-
keeper
again
.
