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Lawrence, D. H. (David Herbert), 1885-1930

"Sons and Lovers"


Then suddenly he found her unable to speak. He took her into a little
public-house, where she rested.
"It's nothing," she said. "My heart is only a bit old; one must expect
it."
He did not answer, but looked at her. Again his heart was crushed in a
hot grip. He wanted to cry, he wanted to smash things in fury.
They set off again, pace by pace, so slowly. And every step seemed like
a weight on his chest. He felt as if his heart would burst. At last
they came to the top. She stood enchanted, looking at the castle gate,
looking at the cathedral front. She had quite forgotten herself.
"Now THIS is better than I thought it could be!" she cried.
But he hated it. Everywhere he followed her, brooding. They sat together
in the cathedral. They attended a little service in the choir. She was
timid.
"I suppose it is open to anybody?" she asked him.
"Yes," he replied. "Do you think they'd have the damned cheek to send us
away."
"Well, I'm sure," she exclaimed, "they would if they heard your
language.


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