Page 135 - lady-chatterlys-lover

Violets were Juno’s eyelids, and windflowers were on rav-
ished brides. How she hated words, always coming between
her and life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-
made words and phrases, sucking all the life-sap out of
living things.
The walk with Clifford was not quite a success. Between
him and Connie there was a tension that each pretended
not to notice, but there it was. Suddenly, with all the force
of her female instinct, she was shoving him off. She wanted
to be clear of him, and especially of his consciousness, his
words, his obsession with himself, his endless treadmill ob-
session with himself, and his own words.
The weather came rainy again. But after a day or two she
went out in the rain, and she went to the wood. And once
there, she went towards the hut. It was raining, but not so
cold, and the wood felt so silent and remote, inaccessible in
the dusk of rain.
She came to the clearing. No one there! The hut was
locked. But she sat on the log doorstep, under the rustic
porch, and snuggled into her own warmth. So she sat, look-
ing at the rain, listening to the many noiseless noises of
it, and to the strange soughings of wind in upper branch-
es, when there seemed to be no wind. Old oak-trees stood
around, grey, powerful trunks, rain-blackened, round and
vital, throwing off reckless limbs. The ground was fairly
free of undergrowth, the anemones sprinkled, there was a
bush or two, elder, or guelder-rose, and a purplish tangle of
bramble: the old russet of bracken almost vanished under
green anemone ruffs. Perhaps this was one of the unrav-

1 Lady Chatterly’s Lover