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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 82/388
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Mrs
Bolton
ate
with
Mrs
Betts
in
the
housekeeper
’
s
room
,
since
they
were
all
agreeable
.
And
it
was
curious
how
much
closer
the
servants
’
quarters
seemed
to
have
come
;
right
up
to
the
doors
of
Clifford
’
s
study
,
when
before
they
were
so
remote
.
For
Mrs
Betts
would
sometimes
sit
in
Mrs
Bolton
’
s
room
,
and
Connie
heard
their
lowered
voices
,
and
felt
somehow
the
strong
,
other
vibration
of
the
working
people
almost
invading
the
sitting
-
room
,
when
she
and
Clifford
were
alone
.
So
changed
was
Wragby
merely
by
Mrs
Bolton
’
s
coming
.
And
Connie
felt
herself
released
,
in
another
world
,
she
felt
she
breathed
differently
.
But
still
she
was
afraid
of
how
many
of
her
roots
,
perhaps
mortal
ones
,
were
tangled
with
Clifford
’
s
.
Yet
still
,
she
breathed
freer
,
a
new
phase
was
going
to
begin
in
her
life
.
Mrs
Bolton
also
kept
a
cherishing
eye
on
Connie
,
feeling
she
must
extend
to
her
her
female
and
professional
protection
.
She
was
always
urging
her
ladyship
to
walk
out
,
to
drive
to
Uthwaite
,
to
be
in
the
air
.
For
Connie
had
got
into
the
habit
of
sitting
still
by
the
fire
,
pretending
to
read
;
or
to
sew
feebly
,
and
hardly
going
out
at
all
.
It
was
a
blowy
day
soon
after
Hilda
had
gone
,
that
Mrs
Bolton
said
:
’
Now
why
don
’
t
you
go
for
a
walk
through
the
wood
,
and
look
at
the
daffs
behind
the
keeper
’
s
cottage
?
They
’
re
the
prettiest
sight
you
’
d
see
in
a
day
’
s
march
.
And
you
could
put
some
in
your
room
;
wild
daffs
are
always
so
cheerful
-
looking
,
aren
’
t
they
?
’
Connie
took
it
in
good
part
,
even
daffs
for
daffodils
.
Wild
daffodils
!
After
all
,
one
could
not
stew
in
one
’
s
own
juice
.
The
spring
came
back
.
.
.
’
Seasons
return
,
but
not
to
me
returns
Day
,
or
the
sweet
approach
of
Ev
’
n
or
Morn
.
’
And
the
keeper
,
his
thin
,
white
body
,
like
a
lonely
pistil
of
an
invisible
flower
!
She
had
forgotten
him
in
her
unspeakable
depression
.
But
now
something
roused
.
.
.
’
Pale
beyond
porch
and
portal
’
.
.
.
the
thing
to
do
was
to
pass
the
porches
and
the
portals
.
She
was
stronger
,
she
could
walk
better
,
and
in
the
wood
the
wind
would
not
be
so
tiring
as
it
was
across
the
park
,
flattening
against
her
.
She
wanted
to
forget
,
to
forget
the
world
,
and
all
the
dreadful
,
carrion
-
bodied
people
.
’
Ye
must
be
born
again
!
I
believe
in
the
resurrection
of
the
body
!
Except
a
grain
of
wheat
fall
into
the
earth
and
die
,
it
shall
by
no
means
bring
forth
.
When
the
crocus
cometh
forth
I
too
will
emerge
and
see
the
sun
!
’
In
the
wind
of
March
endless
phrases
swept
through
her
consciousness
.
Little
gusts
of
sunshine
blew
,
strangely
bright
,
and
lit
up
the
celandines
at
the
wood
’
s
edge
,
under
the
hazel
-
rods
,
they
spangled
out
bright
and
yellow
.
And
the
wood
was
still
,
stiller
,
but
yet
gusty
with
crossing
sun
.
The
first
windflowers
were
out
,
and
all
the
wood
seemed
pale
with
the
pallor
of
endless
little
anemones
,
sprinkling
the
shaken
floor
.
’
The
world
has
grown
pale
with
thy
breath
.
’
But
it
was
the
breath
of
Persephone
,
this
time
;
she
was
out
of
hell
on
a
cold
morning
.
Cold
breaths
of
wind
came
,
and
overhead
there
was
an
anger
of
entangled
wind
caught
among
the
twigs
.
It
,
too
,
was
caught
and
trying
to
tear
itself
free
,
the
wind
,
like
Absalom
.
How
cold
the
anemones
looked
,
bobbing
their
naked
white
shoulders
over
crinoline
skirts
of
green
.
But
they
stood
it
.
A
few
first
bleached
little
primroses
too
,
by
the
path
,
and
yellow
buds
unfolding
themselves
.
The
roaring
and
swaying
was
overhead
,
only
cold
currents
came
down
below
.
Connie
was
strangely
excited
in
the
wood
,
and
the
colour
flew
in
her
cheeks
,
and
burned
blue
in
her
eyes
.
She
walked
ploddingly
,
picking
a
few
primroses
and
the
first
violets
,
that
smelled
sweet
and
cold
,
sweet
and
cold
.
And
she
drifted
on
without
knowing
where
she
was
.
