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

"England, My England"

He's been wounded, you know, and we've been
applying for him home. He was home about six weeks ago--he's been in
Scotland since then. Oh, he was wounded in the leg. Yes, he's all right,
a great strapping fellow. But he's lame, he limps a bit. He expects he'll
get his discharge--but I don't think he will. We married? We've been
married six years--and he joined up the first day of the war. Oh, he
thought he'd like the life. He'd been through the South African War. No,
he was sick of it, fed up. I'm living with his father and mother--I've no
home of my own now. My people had a big farm--over a thousand acres--in
Oxfordshire. Not like here--no. Oh, they're very good to me, his father
and mother. Oh, yes, they couldn't be better. They think more of me than
of their own daughters. But it's not like being in a place of your own,
is it? You can't _really_ do as you like. No, there's only me and his
father and mother at home. Before the war? Oh, he was anything. He's had
a good education--but he liked the farming better. Then he was a
chauffeur. That's how he knew French. He was driving a gentleman in
France for a long time--'
At this point the peacocks came round the corner on a puff of wind.
'Hello, Joey!' she called, and one of the birds came forward, on delicate
legs. Its grey speckled back was very elegant, it rolled its full,
dark-blue neck as it moved to her. She crouched down.


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