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Clifford
married
Connie
,
nevertheless
,
and
had
his
month
’
s
honeymoon
with
her
.
It
was
the
terrible
year
1917
,
and
they
were
intimate
as
two
people
who
stand
together
on
a
sinking
ship
.
He
had
been
virgin
when
he
married
:
and
the
sex
part
did
not
mean
much
to
him
.
They
were
so
close
,
he
and
she
,
apart
from
that
.
And
Connie
exulted
a
little
in
this
intimacy
which
was
beyond
sex
,
and
beyond
a
man
’
s
’
satisfaction
’
.
Clifford
anyhow
was
not
just
keen
on
his
’
satisfaction
’
,
as
so
many
men
seemed
to
be
.
No
,
the
intimacy
was
deeper
,
more
personal
than
that
.
And
sex
was
merely
an
accident
,
or
an
adjunct
,
one
of
the
curious
obsolete
,
organic
processes
which
persisted
in
its
own
clumsiness
,
but
was
not
really
necessary
Though
Connie
did
want
children
:
if
only
to
fortify
her
against
her
sister
-
in
-
law
Emma
.
But
early
in
1918
Clifford
was
shipped
home
smashed
,
and
there
was
no
child
.
And
Sir
Geoffrey
died
of
chagrin
.
Connie
and
Clifford
came
home
to
Wragby
in
the
autumn
of
1920
.
Miss
Chatterley
,
still
disgusted
at
her
brother
’
s
defection
,
had
departed
and
was
living
in
a
little
flat
in
London
.
Wragby
was
a
long
low
old
house
in
brown
stone
,
begun
about
the
middle
of
the
eighteenth
century
,
and
added
on
to
,
till
it
was
a
warren
of
a
place
without
much
distinction
.
It
stood
on
an
eminence
in
a
rather
fine
old
park
of
oak
trees
,
but
alas
,
one
could
see
in
the
near
distance
the
chimney
of
Tevershall
pit
,
with
its
clouds
of
steam
and
smoke
,
and
on
the
damp
,
hazy
distance
of
the
hill
the
raw
straggle
of
Tevershall
village
,
a
village
which
began
almost
at
the
park
gates
,
and
trailed
in
utter
hopeless
ugliness
for
a
long
and
gruesome
mile
:
houses
,
rows
of
wretched
,
small
,
begrimed
,
brick
houses
,
with
black
slate
roofs
for
lids
,
sharp
angles
and
wilful
,
blank
dreariness
.
Connie
was
accustomed
to
Kensington
or
the
Scotch
hills
or
the
Sussex
downs
:
that
was
her
England
.
With
the
stoicism
of
the
young
she
took
in
the
utter
,
soulless
ugliness
of
the
coal
-
and
-
iron
Midlands
at
a
glance
,
and
left
it
at
what
it
was
:
unbelievable
and
not
to
be
thought
about
.
From
the
rather
dismal
rooms
at
Wragby
she
heard
the
rattle
-
rattle
of
the
screens
at
the
pit
,
the
puff
of
the
winding
-
engine
,
the
clink
-
clink
of
shunting
trucks
,
and
the
hoarse
little
whistle
of
the
colliery
locomotives
.
Tevershall
pit
-
bank
was
burning
,
had
been
burning
for
years
,
and
it
would
cost
thousands
to
put
it
out
.
So
it
had
to
burn
.
And
when
the
wind
was
that
way
,
which
was
often
,
the
house
was
full
of
the
stench
of
this
sulphurous
combustion
of
the
earth
’
s
excrement
.
But
even
on
windless
days
the
air
always
smelt
of
something
under
-
earth
:
sulphur
,
iron
,
coal
,
or
acid
.
And
even
on
the
Christmas
roses
the
smuts
settled
persistently
,
incredible
,
like
black
manna
from
the
skies
of
doom
.
Well
,
there
it
was
:
fated
like
the
rest
of
things
!
It
was
rather
awful
,
but
why
kick
?
You
couldn
’
t
kick
it
away
.
It
just
went
on
.
Life
,
like
all
the
rest
!
On
the
low
dark
ceiling
of
cloud
at
night
red
blotches
burned
and
quavered
,
dappling
and
swelling
and
contracting
,
like
burns
that
give
pain
.
It
was
the
furnaces
.
At
first
they
fascinated
Connie
with
a
sort
of
horror
;
she
felt
she
was
living
underground
.
Then
she
got
used
to
them
.
And
in
the
morning
it
rained
.
Clifford
professed
to
like
Wragby
better
than
London
.
This
country
had
a
grim
will
of
its
own
,
and
the
people
had
guts
.
Connie
wondered
what
else
they
had
:
certainly
neither
eyes
nor
minds
.
The
people
were
as
haggard
,
shapeless
,
and
dreary
as
the
countryside
,
and
as
unfriendly
.
Only
there
was
something
in
their
deep
-
mouthed
slurring
of
the
dialect
,
and
the
thresh
-
thresh
of
their
hob
-
nailed
pit
-
boots
as
they
trailed
home
in
gangs
on
the
asphalt
from
work
,
that
was
terrible
and
a
bit
mysterious
.
There
had
been
no
welcome
home
for
the
young
squire
,
no
festivities
,
no
deputation
,
not
even
a
single
flower
.
Only
a
dank
ride
in
a
motor
-
car
up
a
dark
,
damp
drive
,
burrowing
through
gloomy
trees
,
out
to
the
slope
of
the
park
where
grey
damp
sheep
were
feeding
,
to
the
knoll
where
the
house
spread
its
dark
brown
facade
,
and
the
housekeeper
and
her
husband
were
hovering
,
like
unsure
tenants
on
the
face
of
the
earth
,
ready
to
stammer
a
welcome
.
