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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 372/388
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’
Well
,
I
am
,
surprised
at
her
ladyship
,
’
she
said
.
’
She
promised
so
faithfully
she
’
d
come
back
!
’
The
face
in
the
bed
seemed
to
deepen
its
expression
of
wild
,
but
motionless
distraction
.
Mrs
Bolton
looked
at
it
and
was
worried
.
She
knew
what
she
was
up
against
:
male
hysteria
.
She
had
not
nursed
soldiers
without
learning
something
about
that
very
unpleasant
disease
.
She
was
a
little
impatient
of
Sir
Clifford
.
Any
man
in
his
senses
must
have
known
his
wife
was
in
love
with
somebody
else
,
and
was
going
to
leave
him
.
Even
,
she
was
sure
,
Sir
Clifford
was
inwardly
absolutely
aware
of
it
,
only
he
wouldn
’
t
admit
it
to
himself
.
If
he
would
have
admitted
it
,
and
prepared
himself
for
it
:
or
if
he
would
have
admitted
it
,
and
actively
struggled
with
his
wife
against
it
:
that
would
have
been
acting
like
a
man
.
But
no
!
he
knew
it
,
and
all
the
time
tried
to
kid
himself
it
wasn
’
t
so
.
He
felt
the
devil
twisting
his
tail
,
and
pretended
it
was
the
angels
smiling
on
him
.
This
state
of
falsity
had
now
brought
on
that
crisis
of
falsity
and
dislocation
,
hysteria
,
which
is
a
form
of
insanity
.
’
It
comes
’
,
she
thought
to
herself
,
hating
him
a
little
,
’
because
he
always
thinks
of
himself
.
He
’
s
so
wrapped
up
in
his
own
immortal
self
,
that
when
he
does
get
a
shock
he
’
s
like
a
mummy
tangled
in
its
own
bandages
.
Look
at
him
!
’
But
hysteria
is
dangerous
:
and
she
was
a
nurse
,
it
was
her
duty
to
pull
him
out
.
Any
attempt
to
rouse
his
manhood
and
his
pride
would
only
make
him
worse
:
for
his
manhood
was
dead
,
temporarily
if
not
finally
.
He
would
only
squirm
softer
and
softer
,
like
a
worm
,
and
become
more
dislocated
.
The
only
thing
was
to
release
his
self
-
pity
.
Like
the
lady
in
Tennyson
,
he
must
weep
or
he
must
die
.
So
Mrs
Bolton
began
to
weep
first
.
She
covered
her
face
with
her
hand
and
burst
into
little
wild
sobs
.
’
I
would
never
have
believed
it
of
her
ladyship
,
I
wouldn
’
t
!
’
she
wept
,
suddenly
summoning
up
all
her
old
grief
and
sense
of
woe
,
and
weeping
the
tears
of
her
own
bitter
chagrin
.
Once
she
started
,
her
weeping
was
genuine
enough
,
for
she
had
had
something
to
weep
for
.
Clifford
thought
of
the
way
he
had
been
betrayed
by
the
woman
Connie
,
and
in
a
contagion
of
grief
,
tears
filled
his
eyes
and
began
to
run
down
his
cheeks
.
He
was
weeping
for
himself
.
Mrs
Bolton
,
as
soon
as
she
saw
the
tears
running
over
his
blank
face
,
hastily
wiped
her
own
wet
cheeks
on
her
little
handkerchief
,
and
leaned
towards
him
.
’
Now
,
don
’
t
you
fret
,
Sir
Clifford
!
’
she
said
,
in
a
luxury
of
emotion
.
’
Now
,
don
’
t
you
fret
,
don
’
t
,
you
’
ll
only
do
yourself
an
injury
!
’
