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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 325/388
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She
was
glad
to
be
with
her
father
,
whose
favourite
she
had
always
been
.
She
and
Hilda
stayed
in
a
little
hotel
off
Pall
Mall
,
and
Sir
Malcolm
was
in
his
club
.
But
he
took
his
daughters
out
in
the
evening
,
and
they
liked
going
with
him
.
He
was
still
handsome
and
robust
,
though
just
a
little
afraid
of
the
new
world
that
had
sprung
up
around
him
.
He
had
got
a
second
wife
in
Scotland
,
younger
than
himself
and
richer
.
But
he
had
as
many
holidays
away
from
her
as
possible
:
just
as
with
his
first
wife
.
Connie
sat
next
to
him
at
the
opera
.
He
was
moderately
stout
,
and
had
stout
thighs
,
but
they
were
still
strong
and
well
-
knit
,
the
thighs
of
a
healthy
man
who
had
taken
his
pleasure
in
life
.
His
good
-
humoured
selfishness
,
his
dogged
sort
of
independence
,
his
unrepenting
sensuality
,
it
seemed
to
Connie
she
could
see
them
all
in
his
well
-
knit
straight
thighs
.
Just
a
man
!
And
now
becoming
an
old
man
,
which
is
sad
.
Because
in
his
strong
,
thick
male
legs
there
was
none
of
the
alert
sensitiveness
and
power
of
tenderness
which
is
the
very
essence
of
youth
,
that
which
never
dies
,
once
it
is
there
.
Connie
woke
up
to
the
existence
of
legs
.
They
became
more
important
to
her
than
faces
,
which
are
no
longer
very
real
.
How
few
people
had
live
,
alert
legs
!
She
looked
at
the
men
in
the
stalls
.
Great
puddingy
thighs
in
black
pudding
-
cloth
,
or
lean
wooden
sticks
in
black
funeral
stuff
,
or
well
-
shaped
young
legs
without
any
meaning
whatever
,
either
sensuality
or
tenderness
or
sensitiveness
,
just
mere
leggy
ordinariness
that
pranced
around
.
Not
even
any
sensuality
like
her
father
’
s
.
They
were
all
daunted
,
daunted
out
of
existence
.
But
the
women
were
not
daunted
.
The
awful
mill
-
posts
of
most
females
!
really
shocking
,
really
enough
to
justify
murder
!
Or
the
poor
thin
pegs
!
or
the
trim
neat
things
in
silk
stockings
,
without
the
slightest
look
of
life
!
Awful
,
the
millions
of
meaningless
legs
prancing
meaninglessly
around
!
But
she
was
not
happy
in
London
.
The
people
seemed
so
spectral
and
blank
.
They
had
no
alive
happiness
,
no
matter
how
brisk
and
good
-
looking
they
were
.
It
was
all
barren
.
And
Connie
had
a
woman
’
s
blind
craving
for
happiness
,
to
be
assured
of
happiness
.
In
Paris
at
any
rate
she
felt
a
bit
of
sensuality
still
.
But
what
a
weary
,
tired
,
worn
-
out
sensuality
.
Worn
-
out
for
lack
of
tenderness
.
Oh
!
Paris
was
sad
.
One
of
the
saddest
towns
:
weary
of
its
now
-
mechanical
sensuality
,
weary
of
the
tension
of
money
,
money
,
money
,
weary
even
of
resentment
and
conceit
,
just
weary
to
death
,
and
still
not
sufficiently
Americanized
or
Londonized
to
hide
the
weariness
under
a
mechanical
jig
-
jig
-
jig
!
Ah
,
these
manly
he
-
men
,
these
flaneurs
,
the
oglers
,
these
eaters
of
good
dinners
!
How
weary
they
were
!
weary
,
worn
-
out
for
lack
of
a
little
tenderness
,
given
and
taken
.
The
efficient
,
sometimes
charming
women
knew
a
thing
or
two
about
the
sensual
realities
:
they
had
that
pull
over
their
jigging
English
sisters
.
But
they
knew
even
less
of
tenderness
.
Dry
,
with
the
endless
dry
tension
of
will
,
they
too
were
wearing
out
.
The
human
world
was
just
getting
worn
out
.
Perhaps
it
would
turn
fiercely
destructive
.
A
sort
of
anarchy
!
Clifford
and
his
conservative
anarchy
!
Perhaps
it
wouldn
’
t
be
conservative
much
longer
.
Perhaps
it
would
develop
into
a
very
radical
anarchy
.
Connie
found
herself
shrinking
and
afraid
of
the
world
.
Sometimes
she
was
happy
for
a
little
while
in
the
Boulevards
or
in
the
Bois
or
the
Luxembourg
Gardens
.
But
already
Paris
was
full
of
Americans
and
English
,
strange
Americans
in
the
oddest
uniforms
,
and
the
usual
dreary
English
that
are
so
hopeless
abroad
.
