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Lady Chatterley's Lover

Chapter 8
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 bark, flatten 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.
Till she came to the clearing, at the end of the wood, and saw the green-stained
stone cottage, looking almost rosy, like the flesh underneath a mushroom, its
stone warmed in a burst of sun. And there was a sparkle of yellow jasmine by the
 
 
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