David Herbert Lawrence

She sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something she could not

bear. He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk. She kept her head

bent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him. But it

went through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing, he lurched

against the dresser, setting the tins rattling, and clutched at the

white pot knobs for support. He hung up his hat and coat, then returned,

stood glowering from a distance at her, as she sat bowed over the child.

"Is there nothing to eat in the house?" he asked, insolently, as if to a

servant. In certain stages of his intoxication he affected the

clipped, mincing speech of the towns. Mrs. Morel hated him most in this

condition.

"You know what there is in the house," she said, so coldly, it sounded

impersonal.

He stood and glared at her without moving a muscle.

"I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer," he said

affectedly.

"And you got it," she said, still ignoring him.

He glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned on the

table with one hand, and with the other jerked at the table drawer to

get a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because he pulled sideways.

In a temper he dragged it, so that it flew out bodily, and spoons,

forks, knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed with a clatter and a

clang upon the brick floor. The baby gave a little convulsed start.

"What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?" the mother cried.

"Then tha should get the flamin' thing thysen. Tha should get up, like

other women have to, an' wait on a man."

"Wait on you--wait on you?" she cried. "Yes, I see myself."

"Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to. Wait on ME, yes tha sh'lt wait

on me--"

"Never, milord. I'd wait on a dog at the door first."

"What--what?"

He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned round.

His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silent

second in threat.

"P-h!" she went quickly, in contempt.

He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut sharply on his

shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her.

One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawer crashed into

the fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned from her chair. To her

very soul she was sick; she clasped the child tightly to her bosom. A

few moments elapsed; then, with an effort, she brought herself to.

The baby was crying plaintively. Her left brow was bleeding rather

profusely. As she glanced down at the child, her brain reeling, some

drops of blood soaked into its white shawl; but the baby was at least

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