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СӮǧ:⽻:˹23ҽƾԮ˵人 зʾл

2020-08-15 05:26:29  Դձ
СӮǧȰ 

СӮǧȣ

СӮǧַ:a g 9 559 v i p

`I believe our civilization is going to collapse,' said Aunt Eva.

СӮǧȣ廭

`Good morning, Sir.'

Her husband, Ted Bolton, had been killed in the pit, twenty-two years ago, twenty-two years last Christmas, just at Christmas time, leaving her with two children, one a baby in arms. Oh, the baby was married now, Edith, to a young man in Boots Cash Chemists in Sheffield. The other one was a schoolteacher in Chesterfield; she came home weekends, when she wasn't asked out somewhere. Young folks enjoyed themselves nowadays, not like when she, Ivy Bolton, was young.

`But Connie!' she cried. `Whatever is the matter?'

СӮǧȣ ɻ

`Come in again in half an hour.'

Connie really wondered at this queer, melancholy specimen of extraordinary success; it was said he had an income of fifty thousand dollars from America alone. Sometimes he was handsome: sometimes as he looked sideways, downwards, and the light fell on him, he had the silent, enduring beauty of a carved ivory Negro mask, with his rather full eyes, and the strong queerly-arched brows, the immobile, compressed mouth; that momentary but revealed immobility, an immobility, a timelessness which the Buddha aims at, and which Negroes express sometimes without ever aiming at it; something old, old, and acquiescent in the race! Aeons of acquiescence in race destiny, instead of our individual resistance. And then a swimming through, like rats in a dark river. Connie felt a sudden, strange leap of sympathy for him, a leap mingled with compassion, and tinged with repulsion, amounting almost to love. The outsider! The outsider! And they called him a bounder! How much more bounderish and assertive Clifford looked! How much stupider!

СӮǧȣйҶ ۻ

`No thanks! Sir Clifford wondered if you would and she delivered her message, looking unconsciously into his eyes again. And now his eyes looked warm and kind, particularly to a woman, wonderfully warm, and kind, and at ease.

`Might he?' said Clifford. `I hadn't noticed.'

Connie opened the wood-gate, and Clifford puffed slowly through into the broad riding that ran up an incline between the clean-whipped thickets of the hazel. The wood was a remnant of the great forest where Robin Hood hunted, and this riding was an old, old thoroughfare coming across country. But now, of course, it was only a riding through the private wood. The road from Mansfield swerved round to the north.

СӮǧȣͻ

`I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for rearin' th' pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me messin' abaht a' th' time.'

ƷͼƬСӮǧȣ

(ࣺӱӱ)

СӮǧר

СӮǧƼĶ

СӮǧ֤᣺23չпȨصĽ Mellors took the chair again, looking perfectly unheeding, yet Connie felt he noted everything. As he pushed the chair up the steepish rise of the knoll in the park, he breathed rather quickly, through parted lips. He was rather frail really. Curiously full of vitality, but a little frail and quenched. Her woman's instinct sensed it. ϸ

䱾ұսͬʱϺ| ̵2018|ʡԺ֪ͨ⴫¹ڲ

СӮǧԪ֯¹ڲδ"" ҪȫŽ `Oh, I don't think it's my doing,' said Connie. ϸ

СӮǧ-ɭԱԱӴ˶ô죿ר:ʱ ϴ| ̵2018|Աй޽ȡ ⽻Ӧ
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