Lady Chatterley's Lover

line.
    ‘Snorting at least,’ laughed Constance. This was also meant to be an upper-class witty line. There was more to come. Clifford stopped and looked at the house.
    ‘Wragby doesn’t blink an eyelid,’ (Eh?) he said, then came an even more profound utterance. ‘But then why should it? I ride upon the achievements of the mind of man, and that beats a horse!’
    And from her this. ‘I suppose it does. And the souls in Plato riding up to heaven in a two-horse chariot would go in a Ford car now!’
    Came his witty retort. ‘Or a Rolls-Royce: Plato was an aristocrat!’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ she said laughing. ‘And instead of horses only an engine and gas.’
    They both hooted with laughter. If only they had a few bread rolls to throw.
    Constance didn’t really want to go to the woods, once you’d seen one tree you’d seen them all. If she’d been a dog she’d have felt differently. So she walked beside his chair in a certain obstinacy of spirit.
    ‘Why are you walking beside me in a certain obstinacy of spirit?’ he said.
    ‘I was worried — they say some of the miners are striking,’ she said.
    ‘Oh,’ he said in a puzzled voice. ‘Well, I’ve seen all my miners and none of them looked striking to me.’
    ‘I feel guilty about their poverty and our riches,’ she said.
    ‘That is fate,’ he said. ‘Why is the star Jupiter bigger than the star Neptune?’
    ‘Because’, she said. ‘Neptune is smaller.’
    What a silly man he was, in frustration she stamped her foot on the ground, killing an ant ( Lasius niger ).
    ‘But you own the mine, you’re responsible for their lives .’ She stamped her foot, making the dead ant flatter.
    ‘Yes, I do own it,’ he said. ‘But ownership of property has become a religious question since Jesus and St Francis.’
    ‘Jesus never owned any property.’
    ‘No, he was a bloody awful business man.’ He stopped his motor wheelchair. ‘Look,’ he said and pointed to a tree.
    To humour him she looked. ‘And there’s another,’ he said. ‘The woods are full of them! They are on my property,’ he added angrily. ‘Just wait till I find the owner.’
    Constance waited for him to find the owner. He was saying there would always be rich and poor. There was something devastatingly true in what he said. But it was a truth that killed.
    He had spoken the truth to Herbert Lunge and it killed him. Clifford stopped the chair. ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘What is better than an English spring?’
    Constance thought it sounded as though the spring bloomed by an act of Parliament. An English spring? Why not an Irish one or a Jewish? At least with a Jewish one you’d get a discount.
    Seeing her pale and silent, he started up his motor chair, obscuring her in choking clouds of carbon-monoxide. Clifford drove his chair to the tip of a five-hundred-foot drop. Constance followed slowly behind, the temptation was great, one good push, and his policy would mature. The oak-buds were opening, so were the pubs, in the distance she could hear the rush of alcoholic boots.
    ‘Shall I venture as far as the spring?’ said Clifford.
    ‘This is the spring,’ she said. ‘This is May, can’t you remember?’
    ‘I meant the well spring, water, can’t you remember?’ he said. ‘Surely you can tell the difference between the month of May and water coming out of the ground.’
    He pulled down his racing goggles, he revved up the engine using the noise to obscure a tremendous postern blast that nearly lifted him out of the chair. It reached Constance.
    ‘My God,’ she said. ‘There’s a dead body somewhere around here!’
    He drove off at fifty miles an hour leaving her behind with it.
    Constance heard a low whistle behind her. She turned, it was the man with the biggest one in Derbyshire. "As ‘ee got a gun?’ he said, white with fear.
    ‘No,’ she said.
    ‘Oh, good,’ he said, taking off his false beard and moustache. ‘I’ll see you tonight, I’ve had the blanket cleaned.’
    ‘Yes,’ she said.
    With both hands Mellors pushed her breasts up from underneath, up to underneath her chin, with a cry of ‘Wheeee’, and let them fall down and bounce to a halt. ‘Wheeee’ he said and did it again.
    ‘Look,’ said Constance. ‘That’s enough of that, I’m not a bloody fairground.’
    ‘Peep peep pee,’ came the sound of Clifford tooting on his horn.
    ‘He’s calling me,’ she said.
    ‘What’s wrong with his voice?’ said Mellors.
    ‘That’s not his