Page 459 - sons-and-lovers

‘No—or rarely,’ he answered.
‘Nor write?’ she asked, almost sarcastically.
‘As you will,’ he answered. ‘We’re not strangers—never
should be, whatever happened. I will write to you now and
again. You please yourself.’
‘I see!’ she answered cuttingly.
But he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He
had made a great cleavage in his life. He had had a great
shock when she had told him their love had been always a
conflict. Nothing more mattered. If it never had been much,
there was no need to make a fuss that it was ended.
He left her at the lane-end. As she went home, solitary, in
her new frock, having her people to face at the other end, he
stood still with shame and pain in the highroad, thinking
of the suffering he caused her.
In the reaction towards restoring his self-esteem, he went
into the Willow Tree for a drink. There were four girls who
had been out for the day, drinking a modest glass of port.
They had some chocolates on the table. Paul sat near with
his whisky. He noticed the girls whispering and nudging.
Presently one, a bonny dark hussy, leaned to him and said:
‘Have a chocolate?’
The others laughed loudly at her impudence.
‘All right,’ said Paul. ‘Give me a hard one—nut. I don’t
like creams.’
‘Here you are, then,’ said the girl; ‘here’s an almond for
you.’
She held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his
mouth. She popped it in, and blushed.

Sons and Lovers