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

"England, My England"

You villain, you down-right rascal!'
He looked at her.
'Ay,' he said, unmoved. 'All that.' He was uneasy before her. Only he was
not afraid of her. There was something impenetrable about him, like his
eyes, which were as bright as agate.
She towered, and drew near to him menacingly.
'You're going out of this house, aren't you?'--She stamped her foot in
sudden madness. '_This minute!_'
He watched her. He knew she wanted to strike him.
'No,' he said, with suppressed emphasis. 'I've told you, I'm stopping
here.'
He was afraid of her personality, but it did not alter him. She wavered.
Her small, tawny-brown eyes concentrated in a point of vivid, sightless
fury, like a tiger's. The man was wincing, but he stood his ground. Then
she bethought herself. She would gather her forces.
'We'll see whether you're stopping here,' she said. And she turned, with
a curious, frightening lifting of her eyes, and surged out of the room.
The man, listening, heard her go upstairs, heard her tapping at a bedroom
door, heard her saying: 'Do you mind coming down a minute, boys? I want
you. I'm in trouble.'
The man in the bar took off his cap and his black overcoat, and threw
them on the seat behind him. His black hair was short and touched with
grey at the temples. He wore a well-cut, well-fitting suit of dark grey,
American in style, and a turn-down collar. He looked well-to-do, a fine,
solid figure of a man.


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