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at his penis. ‘He’s safe in the arms of creeping Jenny! Not
much burning pestle about him just now.’
And he put his flannel shirt over his head.
’A man’s most dangerous moment,’ he said, when his
head had emerged, ‘is when he’s getting into his shirt. Then
he puts his head in a bag. That’s why I prefer those American
shirts, that you put on like a jacket.’ She still stood watching
him. He stepped into his short drawers, and buttoned them
round the waist.
’Look at Jane!’ he said. ‘In all her blossoms! Who’ll put
blossoms on you next year, Jinny? Me, or somebody else?
‘’Good-bye, my bluebell, farewell to you!’’ I hate that song,
it’s early war days.’ He then sat down, and was pulling on
his stockings. She still stood unmoving. He laid his hand on
the slope of her buttocks. ‘Pretty little Lady Jane!’ he said.
‘Perhaps in Venice you’ll find a man who’ll put jasmine in
your maiden-hair, and a pomegranate flower in your navel.
Poor little lady Jane!’
’Don’t say those things!’ she said. ‘You only say them to
hurt me.’
He dropped his head. Then he said, in dialect:
’Ay, maybe I do, maybe I do! Well then, I’ll say nowt, an’
ha’ done wi’t. But tha mun dress thysen, all’ go back to thy
stately homes of England, how beautiful they stand. Time’s
up! Time’s up for Sir John, an’ for little Lady Jane! Put thy
shimmy on, Lady Chatterley! Tha might be anybody, stan-
din’ there be-out even a shimmy, an’ a few rags o’ flowers.
There then, there then, I’ll undress thee, tha bob-tailed
young throstle.’ And he took the leaves from her hair, kiss-