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wanted to be near her. It was not desire, not that. It was
the cruel sense of unfinished aloneness, that needed a silent
woman folded in his arms. Perhaps he could find her. Per-
haps he could even call her out to him: or find some way in
to her. For the need was imperious.
He slowly, silently climbed the incline to the hall. Then
he came round the great trees at the top of the knoll, on to
the drive, which made a grand sweep round a lozenge of
grass in front of the entrance. He could already see the two
magnificent beeches which stood in this big level lozenge
in front of the house, detaching themselves darkly in the
dark air.
There was the house, low and long and obscure, with one
light burning downstairs, in Sir Clifford’s room. But which
room she was in, the woman who held the other end of the
frail thread which drew him so mercilessly, that he did not
know.
He went a little nearer, gun in hand, and stood motion-
less on the drive, watching the house. Perhaps even now
he could find her, come at her in some way. The house was
not impregnable: he was as clever as burglars are. Why not
come to her?
He stood motionless, waiting, while the dawn faint-
ly and imperceptibly paled behind him. He saw the light
in the house go out. But he did not see Mrs Bolton come
to the window and draw back the old curtain of dark-blue
silk, and stand herself in the dark room, looking out on the
half-dark of the approaching day, looking for the longed-for
dawn, waiting, waiting for Clifford to be really reassured

10 Lady Chatterly’s Lover