Lady Chatterley's Lover

the grammar for her.
    ‘I don’t like Lord Chatterley,’ he said. ‘He’s not my sort.’
    ‘What sort is he?’
    ‘He’s that youngish gentleman with no balls.’
    She didn’t understand.
    ‘What balls?’
    ‘Balls! A man’s balls!’
    She pondered this.
    ‘But is it just a question of that... balls?’
    ‘When a man hasn’t got that spunky wild bit in him, you say he’s got no balls.’
    She pondered this, then said, ‘But Clifford has got balls. I’ve seen them, they’re huge, like Granny Smiths.’
    Mellors had no idea that Granny Smith had big balls, that was her husband’s problem so he did not pursue
    ‘I’ll take off my shoes, they’re wet,’ she said, ‘I’d better sweep up the toenail cuttings first,’ he said, sweeping them into a pile that reached nearly a foot high.
    She was warm near the fire; she took off her coat, he hung it on the door.
    The countdown to the shag had started.
    ‘Shall you have cocoa or tea or coffee to drink?’ he said.
    She paused and put her arm over the back of the chair.
    ‘Have you got any Moët & Chandon Brut ‘21?’
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got cocoa or tea or coffee.’
    ‘I don’t think I want anything,’ she said looking at the empty table. ‘But you eat.’
    ‘Please don’t start that again. I’ll just feed the dog,’ he said putting food in a bowl. It was the dead pigeon.
    He sat on a chair to take off his leggings and boots. She caught a glimpse of his ankle, her heart raced. The dog was trying to work out how to eat a meal with feathers on.
    ‘Do you like dogs?’ she said.
    ‘No,’ he said.
    ‘Then why do you keep one?’
    ‘To kick his arse.’
    He had taken off his leggings and was taking off his huge boots.
    Suddenly, after crossing and uncrossing her legs to ease the tension, she said, ‘Why do the working class wear; boots and aristocrats wear shoes?’
    ‘It’s to keep their feet dry,’ he said.
    He didn’t understand the question, she left it at that. Above his head on the wall was a photograph of a young couple, it was Mellors and his wife, is that you?’ she asked.
    ‘Which one?’ he said.
    ‘The man, silly,’ she answered.
    ‘Yes, that’s me,’ he said feeling ashamed.
    ‘Do you like it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then why do you keep it?’
    ‘It covers a damp stain on the wall.’
    ‘Why don’t you burn it?’ she said.
    He took the photograph down.
    ‘Good heavens,’ exclaimed Constance. ‘There’s a damp patch on your wall up there.’
    ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That’s the one I was telling you about.’
    He handed her the photograph, it showed a young fresh-faced man and a young plump woman, their expressions were the same as those on the Titanic as it went down.
    ‘Have you been keeping this for sentimental reasons?’ Constance said sympathetically.
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ve been keeping it to cover the damp stain on the wall.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Constance, it makes me feel guilty.’ Mellors didn’t answer, he just wondered how anyone could feel guilty about a damp stain on a wall. But then women were strange. She handed him the photograph to burn. He took it out of the frame.
    ‘Do you know how much this photograph cost in 1920?’ he asked.
    ‘No,’ said Constance.
    ‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘Neither do I.’
    He tore the photo in half then quarters then in eighths then sixteenths then thirty-secondths then with sweat pouring, sixty-fourths, then with veins standing out on his forehead he tore them into one hundred and twenty-eighths.
    ‘For God’s sake, that’s enough,’ gasped Constance. ‘Save something for the fuck.’
    He threw the pieces into the fire, it flared up. He peered into the flames, he liked a good peer. One of the good peers he liked was Lord Sainsbury, founder of Sainsbury’s.
    ‘Did you love your wife?’ she asked him.
    ‘I find that hard to say,’ he said.
    ‘No, it isn’t,’ she snapped, ‘I’ve just said it and it’s quite easy.’
    He spat into the fire and put it out.
    ‘Did you love Sir Clifford?’
    ‘Did I love Sir Clifford?’ she repeated slowly. After a pause, about an hour, she said, ‘I really don’t know what to say.’
    He came galloping to her rescue. ‘Say, the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs.’
    Constance pulled back, she raised her eyebrows, about an inch and a quarter he estimated.
    ‘Why do I have to say that?’
    He looked oafish, then a bit more, till eventually he was a complete