Tuesday, January 18, 2022

the last book I ever read (D. H. Lawrence's St. Mawr, excerpt nine)

from St. Mawr by D. H. Lawrence:

She was in love with him. And he, in an odd way, was in love with her. She had known it by the odd, uncanny merriment in him, and his unexpected loquacity. But he would not have her come physically near him. Unapproachable there as a cactus, guarding his “body” from her contact. As if contact with her would be mortal insult and fatal injury to his marvellous “body.”

What a little cock-sparrow!

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