-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
-
- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
-
- Стр. 73/388
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
’
Oh
,
when
people
begin
to
talk
about
real
women
,
I
give
up
,
’
said
Olive
.
’
Certainly
nothing
but
the
spirit
in
us
is
worth
having
,
’
said
Winterslow
.
’
Spirits
!
’
said
Jack
,
drinking
his
whisky
and
soda
.
’
Think
so
?
Give
me
the
resurrection
of
the
body
!
’
said
Dukes
.
’
But
it
’
ll
come
,
in
time
,
when
we
’
ve
shoved
the
cerebral
stone
away
a
bit
,
the
money
and
the
rest
.
Then
we
’
ll
get
a
democracy
of
touch
,
instead
of
a
democracy
of
pocket
.
’
Something
echoed
inside
Connie
:
’
Give
me
the
democracy
of
touch
,
the
resurrection
of
the
body
!
’
She
didn
’
t
at
all
know
what
it
meant
,
but
it
comforted
her
,
as
meaningless
things
may
do
.
Anyhow
everything
was
terribly
silly
,
and
she
was
exasperatedly
bored
by
it
all
,
by
Clifford
,
by
Aunt
Eva
,
by
Olive
and
Jack
,
and
Winterslow
,
and
even
by
Dukes
.
Talk
,
talk
,
talk
!
What
hell
it
was
,
the
continual
rattle
of
it
!
Then
,
when
all
the
people
went
,
it
was
no
better
.
She
continued
plodding
on
,
but
exasperation
and
irritation
had
got
hold
of
her
lower
body
,
she
couldn
’
t
escape
.
The
days
seemed
to
grind
by
,
with
curious
painfulness
,
yet
nothing
happened
.
Only
she
was
getting
thinner
;
even
the
housekeeper
noticed
it
,
and
asked
her
about
herself
.
Even
Tommy
Dukes
insisted
she
was
not
well
,
though
she
said
she
was
all
right
.
Only
she
began
to
be
afraid
of
the
ghastly
white
tombstones
,
that
peculiar
loathsome
whiteness
of
Carrara
marble
,
detestable
as
false
teeth
,
which
stuck
up
on
the
hillside
,
under
Tevershall
church
,
and
which
she
saw
with
such
grim
painfulness
from
the
park
.
The
bristling
of
the
hideous
false
teeth
of
tombstones
on
the
hill
affected
her
with
a
grisly
kind
of
horror
.
She
felt
the
time
not
far
off
when
she
would
be
buried
there
,
added
to
the
ghastly
host
under
the
tombstones
and
the
monuments
,
in
these
filthy
Midlands
.
She
needed
help
,
and
she
knew
it
:
so
she
wrote
a
little
cri
du
coeur
to
her
sister
,
Hilda
.
’
I
’
m
not
well
lately
,
and
I
don
’
t
know
what
’
s
the
matter
with
me
.
’