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

"Women in Love"


His arms were fast around her, he seemed to be gathering her into
himself, her warmth, her softness, her adorable weight, drinking in the
suffusion of her physical being, avidly. He lifted her, and seemed to
pour her into himself, like wine into a cup.
'This is worth everything,' he said, in a strange, penetrating voice.
So she relaxed, and seemed to melt, to flow into him, as if she were
some infinitely warm and precious suffusion filling into his veins,
like an intoxicant. Her arms were round his neck, he kissed her and
held her perfectly suspended, she was all slack and flowing into him,
and he was the firm, strong cup that receives the wine of her life. So
she lay cast upon him, stranded, lifted up against him, melting and
melting under his kisses, melting into his limbs and bones, as if he
were soft iron becoming surcharged with her electric life.
Till she seemed to swoon, gradually her mind went, and she passed away,
everything in her was melted down and fluid, and she lay still, become
contained by him, sleeping in him as lightning sleeps in a pure, soft
stone.


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