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

"England, My England"

'
He leaned forwards in his chair towards her.
'I don't think no worse of you for it, no, darned if I do. Fine pluck in
a woman's what I admire. That I do, indeed.'
She only gazed into the fire.
'We fet from the start, we did. And, my word, you begin again quick the
minute you see me, you did. Darn me, you was too sharp for me. A darn
fine woman, puts up a darn good fight. Darn me if I could find a woman in
all the darn States as could get me down like that. Wonderful fine woman
you be, truth to say, at this minute.'
She only sat glowering into the fire.
'As grand a pluck as a man could wish to find in a woman, true as I'm
here,' he said, reaching forward his hand and tentatively touching her
between her full, warm breasts, quietly.
She started, and seemed to shudder. But his hand insinuated itself
between her breasts, as she continued to gaze in the fire.
'And don't you think I've come back here a-begging,' he said. 'I've more
than _one_ thousand pounds to my name, I have. And a bit of a fight for a
how-de-do pleases me, that it do. But that doesn't mean as you're going
to deny as you're my Missis....'


_The Primrose Path_

A young man came out of the Victoria station, looking undecidedly at
the taxi-cabs, dark-red and black, pressing against the kerb under the
glass-roof. Several men in greatcoats and brass buttons jerked themselves
erect to catch his attention, at the same time keeping an eye on the
other people as they filtered through the open doorways of the station.


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