Tenderness

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Reliable, invaluable Elise! By the time they arrived, the bath was prepared. Fresh, snowy towels were heaped on a little cart along with an open jar of ointment, two cakes of large fragrant soap, and a saucer on which chilled segments of tangerine had been arranged. Beside the saucer was a crystal pitcher of ice water and two cut glass tumblers. The tub— large, round, deep enough to stand in—was full to the brim and steaming. On the surface of the water floated a single gardenia. Berenice eased Clarissa down, unlaced and removed the corset, then helped her climb into the tub. The little girl winced when the hot water made contact with her bottom, then an expression of happy pride lit up her face. “You marked me!” she exclaimed. “I won’t be able to sit down on the train tomorrow.” “You may not,” Berenice said ruefully, hanging her robe on a bronze hook, “but I couldn’t resist your plump little hot cross buns. Let’s relax and refresh ourselves.” She climbed into the tub beside Clarissa. There were marble benches inside the tub at the right height for them to sit down and still have their shoulders covered by the lovely hot water. While they soaked, they fed each other slices of tangerine and took tiny sips of the cold water. Clarissa recovered quickly, and was the first out of the tub. She dried herself, then held out a thick towel to receive Berenice. She dried her mistress carefully, daring to kiss her shoulders and the place between her breasts. She brushed against the older woman, hugged her tight, and whispered, “Will you take me into your bed tonight?” Berenice considered this request. She felt a certain lassitude, the cynical melancholy that overcame her when she was exhausted. Then she contemplated Clarissa’s enthusiasm, her fresh face, her hope and affection, and could not bear to disappoint her. Perhaps the maraschino cherry mouth and the dove-like hands could arouse her interest and restore her contentment. But they could not go like this, like a pair of simple-minded, medieval shepherdesses slipping hand-in-hand into the nearest patch of willows. She seized Clarissa by the hair and dragged her closer, until the tips of her toes barely touched the thick white carpet. “Oh yes,” she threatened. “I’ll take you into my bed tonight. And you won’t get any sleep at all—not a wink.” Forgetting her robe (but not the birching ointment), she hauled Clarissa out of the bathroom and pushed her toward the stairs. “Let’s see what your gratitude is worth,” she sneered. They got as far as the landing before Clarissa broke away, sank to her knees, and buried her face between Berenice’s thighs. From the bottom of the stairs, Elise (on her way to tidy up the disciplinary chamber) caught a glimpse of the beautiful pose. She smiled wistfully, shook out her feather duster, and went in solitary pursuit of her domestic duties. Berenice did not quite keep her word.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Of them all, however, it was Barbara and Jamie for whom Mary developed a real affection; she and Barbara had formed a harmless alliance which at times was even a little pathetic. The one talking of Jamie, the other of Stephen, they would put their young heads together very gravely. ‘Do you find Jamie goes off her food when she’s working?’ ‘Do you find that Stephen sleeps badly? Is she careless of her health? Jamie’s awfully worrying sometimes.’ Or perhaps they would be in a more flippant mood and would sit and whisper together, laughing; making tender fun of the creatures they loved, as women have been much inclined to do ever since that rib was demanded of Adam. Then Jamie and Stephen would pretend to feel aggrieved, would pretend that they also must hang together, must be on their guard against feminine intrigues. Oh, yes, the whole business was rather pathetic. Jamie and her Barbara were starvation-poor, so poor that a square meal came as a godsend. Stephen would feel ashamed to be rich, and, like Mary, was always anxious to feed them. Being idle at the moment, Stephen would insist upon frequently taking them out to dinner, and then she would order expensive viands—copper-green oysters straight from the Marennes, caviare and other such costly things, to be followed by even more sumptuous dishes—and since they went short on most days in the week, these stomachic debauches would frequently upset them. Two glasses of wine would cause Jamie to flush, for her head had never been of the strongest, nor was it accustomed to such golden nectar. Her principal beverage was crème-de-menthe because it kept out the cold in the winter, and because, being pepperminty and sweet, it reminded her of the bull’s-eyes at Beedles. They were not very easy to help, these two, for Jamie, pride-galled, was exceedingly touchy. She would never accept gifts of money or clothes, and was struggling to pay off the debt to her master. Even food gave offence unless it was shared by the donors, which though very praiseworthy was foolish. However, there it was, one just had to take her or leave her, there was no compromising with Jamie. After dinner they would drift back to Jamie’s abode, a studio in the old Rue Visconti. They would climb innumerable dirty stone stairs to the top of what had once been a fine house but was now let off to such poor rats as Jamie. The concierge, an unsympathetic woman, long soured by the empty pockets of students, would peer out at them from her dark ground floor kennel, with sceptical eyes. ‘Bon soir, Madame Lambert.’ ‘Bon soir, mesdames,’ she would growl impolitely. Jamie’s studio was large, bare, and swept by draughts.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  He was a Gentile by birth,992 though he may have become a proselyte of the gate. His nationality and antecedents are unknown. He was probably a Syrian of Antioch, and one of the earliest converts in that mother church of Gentile Christianity.993 This conjecture is confirmed by the fact that he gives us much information about the church in Antioch (Acts 11:19–30; 13:1–3; 15:1–3, 22–35), that he traces the origin of the name "Christians" to that city (11:19), and that in enumerating the seven deacons of Jerusalem he informs us of the Antiochian origin of Nicolas (Acts 6:5), without mentioning the nationality of any of the others.994 We meet Luke first as a companion of Paul at Troas, when, after the Macedonian call, "Come over and help us," he was about to carry the gospel to Greece on his second great missionary tour. For from that important epoch Luke uses the first personal pronoun in the plural: "When he [Paul] had seen the vision, straightway we sought to go forth into Macedonia, concluding that God had called us to preach the gospel unto them" (Acts 16:10). He accompanied him to Philippi and seems to have remained there after the departure of Paul and Silas for Corinth (A.D. 51), in charge of the infant church; for the "we" is suddenly replaced by "they" (17:1). Seven years later (A.D. 58) he joined the apostle again, when he passed through Philippi on his last journey to Jerusalem, stopping a week at Troas (Acts 20:5, 6); for from that moment Luke resumes the "we" of the narrative. He was with Paul or near him at Jerusalem and two years at Caesarea, accompanied him on his perilous voyage to Rome, of which he gives a most accurate account, and remained with him to the end of his first Roman captivity, with which he closes his record (A.D. 63). He may however, have been temporarily absent on mission work during the four years of Paul’s imprisonment. Whether he accompanied him on his intended visit to Spain and to the East, after the year 63, we do not know. The last allusion to him is the word of Paul when on the point of martyrdom: "Only Luke is with me" (2 Tim. 4:11). The Bible leaves Luke at the height of his usefulness in the best company, with Paul preaching the gospel in the metropolis of the world. Post-apostolic tradition, always far below the healthy and certain tone of the New Testament, mostly vague and often contradictory, never reliable, adds that he lived to the age of eighty-four, labored in several countries, was a painter of portraits of Jesus, of the Virgin, and the apostles, and that he was crucified on an olive-tree at Elaea in Greece. His real or supposed remains, together with those of Andrew the apostle, were transferred from Patrae in Achaia to the Church of the Apostles in Constantinople.995

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  The man lay in a mysterious stillness. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? She did not know. He was a strange man to her, she did not know him. She must only wait, for she did not dare to break his mysterious stillness. He lay there with his arms round her, his body on hers, his wet body touching hers, so close. And completely unknown. Yet not unpeaceful. His very stillness was peaceful. She knew that, when at last he roused and drew away from her. It was like an abandonment. He drew her dress in the darkness down over her knees and stood a few moments, apparently adjusting his own clothing. Then he quietly opened the door and went out. She saw a very brilliant little moon shining above the afterglow over the oaks. Quickly she got up and arranged herself; she was tidy. Then she went to the door of the hut. All the lower wood was in shadow, almost darkness. Yet the sky overhead was crystal. But it shed hardly any light. He came through the lower shadow towards her, his face lifted like a pale blotch. "Shall we go, then?" he said. "Where?" "I'll go with you to the gate." He arranged things his own way. He locked the door of the hut and came after her. "You aren't sorry, are you?" he asked, as he went at her side. "No! No! Are you?" she said. "For that! No!" he said. Then after a while he added: "But there's the rest of things." "What rest of things?" she said. "Sir Clifford. Other folks. All the complications." "Why complications?" she said, disappointed. "It's always so. For you as well as for me. There's always complications." He walked on steadily in the dark. "And are you sorry?" she said. "In a way!" he replied, looking up at the sky. "I thought I'd done with it all. Now I've begun again." "Begun what?" "Life." "Life!" she re-echoed, with a queer thrill. "It's life," he said. "There's no keeping clear. And if you do keep clear you might almost as well die. So if I've got to be broken open again, I have." She did not quite see it that way, but still.... "It's just love," she said cheerfully. "Whatever that may be," he replied. They went on through the darkening wood in silence, till they were almost at the gate. "But you don't hate me, do you?" she said wistfully. "Nay, nay," he replied. And suddenly he held her fast against his breast again, with the old connecting passion. "Nay, for me it was good, it was good. Was it for you?" "Yes, for me too," she answered, a little untruthfully, for she had not been conscious of much. He kissed her softly, softly, with the kisses of warmth. "If only there weren't so many other people in the world," he said lugubriously. She laughed. They were at the gate to the park. He opened for her.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  Christ, saying, “He was just so gentle and so loving.” By the time the Laffertys bid farewell to Bryant’s group and the damp charms of the Pacific Northwest, Dan had taken Grant as his third wife. The newlyweds and her two youngest children drove away together in Grant’s car, while Ron, her two older sons, and Knapp departed in the Impala. They agreed to meet in two weeks, at the Confederated States of the Exiled Nation of Israel—the Utah compound of Alex Joseph, one of America’s best-known polygamists. Joseph, six or seven of his wives, and their many children lived in Big Water, a faded desert settlement near the southwestern end of Lake Powell, the second-largest reservoir in the nation. * Big Water happened to be not terribly far from Colorado City, the stronghold of Uncle Roy’s Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—the most populous polygamist sect in the nation. Ron, Ricky Knapp, and Grant’s older boys drove south on Interstate 5 into California. While they were making a bathroom stop at a rest area outside of Sacramento, the youngsters struck up a conversation with a twenty-three-year- old drifter and petty thief from New Mexico named Chip Carnes. The brakes had failed on his run-down car, and after the boys introduced him to Ron, Ron offered to help Carnes get the vehicle to a repair shop in Sacramento. Strapping a spare tire to the rear bumper of the Impala, Ron instructed Carnes to drive with the nose of his car pushed tight against the tire, so that Ron could use the Impala’s brakes to slow Carnes’s vehicle when they needed to come to a stop. By this sketchy but ultimately effective method they got the brakeless machine to a mechanic’s shop in Sacramento. As it turned out, though, Carnes didn’t have enough money to get the old beater repaired. So he sold the car to the mechanic on the spot, contributed the modest proceeds to the Impala’s gasoline fund, and climbed into the green station wagon with Ron, Knapp, and Grant’s kids, all bound for southern Utah to hook up with Dan and his latest wife. Dan and Laurene Grant got to Big Water first. By this point, after approximately a week of marriage, the newlyweds were no longer getting along so well, prompting Grant to ask Dan for a “writ of divorcement.” Dan complied, and then, even before Ron showed up, he stuck out his thumb and hitchhiked back to Utah County, leaving Grant at Alex Joseph’s place to await the arrival of Ron and her two oldest children.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  A SACRED RECOLLECTION AND PENANCE A variety of incidents in my life have conspired to bring me in close contact with people of many creeds and many communities, and my experience with all of them warrants the statement that I have known no distinction between relatives and strangers, countrymen and foreigners, white and coloured, Hindus and Indians of other faiths, whether Musalmans, Parsis, Christians or Jews. I may say that my heart has been incapable of making any such distinctions. I cannot claim this as a special virtue, as it is in my very nature. rather than a result of any effort on my part, whereas in the case of ahimsa (non- violence), brahmacharya (celibacy), aparigraha (non- possession) and other cardinal virtues, I am fully conscious of a continuous striving for their cultivation. When I was practising in Durban, my office clerks often stayed with me, and there were among them Hindus and Christians, or to describe them by their provinces, Gujaratis and Tamilians. I do not recollect having ever regarded them as anything but my kith and kin. I treated them as members of my family, and had unpleasantness with my wife if ever she stood in the way of my treating them as such. One of the clerks was a Christian, born of Panchama parents. The house was built after the Western model and the rooms rightly had no outlets for dirty water. Each room had therefore chamber-pots. Rather than have these cleaned by a servant or a sweeper, my wife or I attended to them. The clerks who made themselves completely at home would naturally clean their own pots, but the Christian clerk was a newcomer, and it was our duty to attend to his bedroom. My wife managed the pots of the others, but to clean those used by one who had been a Panchama seemed to her to be the limit, and we fell out. She could not bear the pots being cleaned by me, neither did she like doing it herself. Even today I can recall the picture of her chiding me, her eyes red with

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  Narayan Hemchandra’s simplicity was all his own, and his frankness was on a par with it. Of pride he had not the slightest trace, excepting, of course, a rather undue regard for his own capacity as a writer. We met daily. There was a considerable amount of similarity between our thoughts and actions. Both of us were vegetarians. We would often have our lunch together. This was the time when I lived on 17s. a week and cooked for myself. Sometimes when I would go to his room, and sometimes he would come to mine. I cooked in the English style. Nothing but Indian style would satisfy him. He would not do without dal. I would make soup of carrots etc., and he would pity me for my taste. Once he somehow hunted out mung [1] cooked it and brought it to my place. I ate it with delight. This led on to a regular system of exchange between us. I would take my delicacies to him and he would bring his to me. Cardinal Manning’s name was then on every lip. The dock labourers’ strike had come to an early termination owing to the efforts of John Burns and Cardinal Manning. I told Narayan Hemchandra of Disraeli’s tribute to the Cardinal’s simplicity. ‘Then I must see the sage,’ said he. ‘He is a big man. How do you expect to meet him?’ ‘Why? I know how. I must get you to write to him in my name. Tell him I am an author and that I want to congratulate him personally on his humanitarian work, and also say that I shall have to take you as interpreter as I do not know English.’ I wrote a letter to that effect. In two or three days came Cardinal Manning’s card in reply giving us an appointment. So we both called on the Cardinal. I put on the usual visiting suit. Narayan Hemchandra was the same as ever, in the same coat and the same trousers. I tried to make fun of this, but he laughed me out and said:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  However, the saint had not lost sight of him and was not long in providing him with a good lodging. There was in the town a widow lady, as fair of favour as any woman living, whom the Marquis Azzo loved as his life and there kept at his disposition, and she abode in that same house, beneath the projection whereof Rinaldo had taken shelter. Now, as chance would have it, the Marquis had come to the town that day, thinking to lie the night with her, and had privily let make ready in her house a bath and a sumptuous supper. Everything being ready and nought awaited by the lady but the coming of the Marquis, it chanced that there came a serving-man to the gate, who brought him news, which obliged him to take horse forthright; wherefore, sending to tell his mistress not to expect him, he departed in haste. The lady, somewhat disconsolate at this, knowing not what to do, determined to enter the bath prepared for the Marquis and after sup and go to bed. Accordingly she entered the bath, which was near the door, against which the wretched merchant was crouched without the city-wall; wherefore she, being therein, heard the weeping and trembling kept up by Rinaldo, who seemed as he were grown a stork,[85] and calling her maid, said to her, 'Go up and look over the wall who is at the postern-foot and what he doth there.' The maid went thither and aided by the clearness of the air, saw Rinaldo in his shirt and barefoot, sitting there, as hath been said, and trembling sore; whereupon she asked him who he was. He told her, as briefliest he might, who he was and how and why he was there, trembling the while on such wise that he could scarce form the words, and after fell to beseeching her piteously not to leave him there all night to perish of cold, [but to succour him,] an it might be. The maid was moved to pity of him and returning to her mistress, told her all. The lady, on like wise taking compassion on him and remembering that she had the key of the door aforesaid, which served whiles for the privy entrances of the Marquis, said, 'Go softly and open to him; here is this supper and none to eat it and we have commodity enough for his lodging.' [Footnote 85: _i.e._ whose teeth chattered as it were the clapping of a stork's beak.]

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Berenice approached her trembling, girlish victim, hiding something in her hand. “Close your eyes,” she ordered. Despite whimpers and some insubordinate squirming, she blindfolded Clarissa with a mink-lined sleeping shade. She had already selected her first instrument of chastisement: a carriage whip with a brand new cracker. It made a good deal more noise than anything else. In her other hand, she took up an ostrich plume. A rabbit’s fur glove and a currycomb were also nearby, ready for her use. By alternating all of these devices, causing both pain and pleasure with each of them, she soon had Clarissa relaxed and completely vulnerable, jumping and moaning, her skin sensitized, her nerves trained to soothe any hurt or discomfort and blend it quickly into her growing sexual arousal. Even when correcting serious misdeeds, Berenice was not brutal. She loved helplessness, she craved the sight of a female body abandoning all decency and self-control. These things are not granted save in loving trust. Dominance is not created without complicity. A well-trained slave is hopelessly in love with her mistress and will weep for days if a fault is not reprimanded. If no punishment is forthcoming, she will ask for it—even administer it herself as proof of her devotion. Berenice stroked the inside of Clarissa’s thighs with the fur glove and allowed her to feel the first few contractions of an orgasm. Then she withdrew and removed the blindfold. Clarissa protested vociferously. “There’s no pleasing you,” Berenice laughed. “You don’t like it on and you don’t like it off. Perverse little monkey.” She fondled her. “Pretty thing. I’ll do as I like with you. Won’t I? Won’t I?” And she forced eloquent, clarion agreement from her chained virgin slave. Her caresses wandered near the most sensitive areas of the poor child’s body. “Can you guess what I want to do? Hmm? My almost-grown-up girl? Something we don’t do very often, you and I.” Her fingers trespassed, tempted, retreated. “A little serious flagellation, my pet. A really good, thorough beating. Can you, for me?” “Oh—please,” panted Clarissa. Berenice selected a short cat from the umbrella stand and began to lightly switch Clarissa’s shoulders and backside. The lashes flicked her tender thighs as well, leaving red stripes that quickly faded. She alternated the blows with moments of loving praise and encouragement, during which time she would tickle Clarissa between the legs with a whip handle. She soon had her writhing upon the horse, her behind plunging up and down like a lusty mare. The girl gasped for breath and clenched and unclenched her tiny hands.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  He looked up at her with the full glance that saw everything, registered everything. At the same time, the infant crying in the night was crying out of his breast to her in a way that affected her very womb. "It's awfully nice of you to think of me," he said laconically. "Why shouldn't I think of you?" she exclaimed with hardly breath to utter it. He gave the wry, quick hiss of a laugh. "Oh, in that way!... May I hold your hand for a minute?" he asked suddenly, fixing his eyes on her with almost hypnotic power, and sending out an appeal that affected her direct in the womb. She stared at him, dazed and transfixed, and he went over and kneeled beside her, and took her two feet close in his two hands, and buried his face in her lap, remaining motionless. She was perfectly dim and dazed, looking down in a sort of amazement at the rather tender nape of his neck, feeling his face pressing her thighs. In all her burning dismay, she could not help putting her hand, with tenderness and compassion, on the defenceless nape of his neck, and he trembled with a deep shudder. Then he looked up at her with that awful appeal in his full, glowing eyes. She was utterly incapable of resisting it. From her breast flowed the answering, immense yearning over him; she must give him anything, anything. He was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman, trembling uncontrollably, and yet at the same time detached, aware, aware of every sound outside. To her it meant nothing except that she gave herself to him. And at length he ceased to quiver any more, and lay quite still, quite still. Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her breast. When he rose, he kissed both her hands, then both her feet, in their suède slippers and in silence went away to the end of the room, where he stood with his back to her. There was silence for some minutes. Then he turned and came to her again as she sat in her old place by the fire. "And now, I suppose you'll hate me!" he said in a quiet, inevitable way. She looked up at him quickly. "Why should I?" she asked. "They mostly do," he said; then he caught himself up. "I mean ... a woman is supposed to." "This is the last moment when I ought to hate you," she said resentfully. "I know! I know! It should be so! You're _frightfully_ good to me...." he cried miserably. She wondered why he should be miserable. "Won't you sit down again?" she said. He glanced at the door.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  He turned his slow, rather full eyes, that had been drowned in such fathomless disillusion, on Connie, and she trembled a little. He seemed so old ... endlessly old, built up of layers of disillusion, going down in him generation after generation, like geological strata; and at the same time he was forlorn like a child. An outcast, in a certain sense; but with the desperate bravery of his rat-like existence. "At least it's wonderful what you've done at your time of life," said Clifford contemplatively. "I'm thirty ... yes, I'm thirty!" said Michaelis, sharply and suddenly, with a curious laugh; hollow, triumphant, and bitter. "And are you alone?" asked Connie. "How do you mean? Do I live alone? I've got my servant. He's a Greek, so he says, and quite incompetent. But I keep him. And I'm going to marry. Oh, yes, I must marry." "It sounds like going to have your tonsils cut," laughed Connie. "Will it be an effort?" He looked at her admiringly. "Well, Lady Chatterley, somehow it will! I find ... excuse me ... I find I can't marry an Englishwoman, not even an Irishwoman...." "Try an American," said Clifford. "Oh, American!" he laughed a hollow laugh. "No, I've asked my man if he will find me a Turk or something ... something nearer to the Oriental." Connie really wondered at this queer, melancholy specimen of extraordinary success; it was said he had an income of fifty thousand dollars from America alone. Sometimes he was handsome: sometimes as he looked sideways, downwards, and the light fell on him, he had the silent, enduring beauty of a carved ivory Negro mask, with his rather full eyes, and the strong queerly-arched brows, the immobile, compressed mouth; that momentary but revealed immobility, an immobility, a timelessness which the Buddha aims at, and which Negroes express sometimes without ever aiming at it; something old, old, and acquiescent in the race! Aeons of acquiescence in race destiny, instead of our individual resistance. And then a swimming through, like rats in a dark river. Connie felt a sudden, strange leap of sympathy for him, a leap mingled with compassion, and tinged with repulsion, amounting almost to love. The outsider! The outsider! And they called him a bounder! How much more bounderish and assertive Clifford looked! How much stupider! Michaelis knew at once he had made an impression on her. He turned his full, hazel, slightly prominent eyes on her in a look of pure detachment. He was estimating her, and the extent of the impression he had made. With the English nothing could save him from being the eternal outsider, not even love. Yet women sometimes fell for him ... Englishwomen too. He knew just where he was with Clifford. They were two alien dogs which would have liked to snarl at one another, but which smiled instead, perforce. But with the woman he was not quite so sure.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  CHRISTIAN CONTACTS The next day at one o’clock I went to Mr. Baker’s prayer-meeting. There I was introduced to Miss Harris, Miss Gabb, Mr. Coates and others. Everyone kneeled down to pray, and I followed suit. The prayers were supplications to God for various things, according to each person’s desire. Thus the usual forms were for the day to be passed peacefully, or for God to open the doors of the heart. A prayer was now added for my welfare: ‘Lord, show the path to the new brother who has come amongst us, Give him, Lord, the peace that Thou hast given us. May the Lord Jesus who has saved us save him too. We ask all this in the name of Jesus.’ There was no singing of hymns or other music at these meetings. After the supplication for something special every day, we dispersed, each going to his lunch, that being the hour for it. The prayers did not take more than five minutes. The Misses Harris and Gabb were both elderly maiden ladies. Mr. Coates was a Quaker. The two ladies lived together, and they gave me a standing invitation to four o’clock tea at their house every Sunday. When we met on Sundays, I used to give Mr. Coates my religious diary for the week, and discuss with him the books I had read and the impression they had left on me. The ladies used to narrate their sweet experiences and talk about the peace they had found. Mr. Coates was a frank-hearted staunch young man. We went out for walks together, and he also took me to other Christian friends. As we came closer to each other, he began to give me books of his own choice, until my shelf was filled with them. He loaded me with books, as it were. In pure

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She lay still. He softly opened the door. The sky was dark blue, with crystalline, turquoise rim. He went out, to shut up the hens, speaking softly to his dog. And she lay and wondered at the wonder of life, and of being. When he came back she was still lying there, glowing like a gypsy. He sat on the stool by her. "Tha mun come one naight ter th' cottage, afore tha goos; sholl ter?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows as he looked at her, his hands dangling between his knees. "Sholl ter?" she echoed, teasing. He smiled. "Ay, sholl ter?" he repeated. "Ay!" she said, imitating the dialect sound. "Yi!" he said. "Yi!" she repeated. "An' slaip wi' me," he said. "It needs that. When sholt come?" "When sholl I?" she said. "Nay," he said, "tha canna do't. When sholt come then?" "'Appen Sunday," she said. "'Appen a' Sunday! Ay!" He laughed at her quickly. "Nay, tha canna," he protested. "Why canna I?" she said. He laughed. Her attempts at the dialect were so ludicrous, somehow. "Coom then, tha mun goo!" he said. "Mun I?" she said. "Maun Ah!" he corrected. "Why should I say _maun_ when you said _mun_," she protested. "You're not playing fair." "Arena Ah!" he said, leaning forward and softly stroking her face. "Tha'rt good cunt, though, aren't ter? Best bit o' cunt left on earth. When ter likes! When tha'rt willin'!" "What is cunt?" she said. "An' doesn't ter know? Cunt! It's thee down theer; an' what I get when I'm i'side thee, and what tha gets when I'm i'side thee; it's a' as it is, all on't." "All on't," she teased. "Cunt! It's like fuck then." "Nay nay! Fuck's only what you do. Animals fuck. But cunt's a lot more than that. It's thee, dost see: an' tha'rt a lot beside an animal, aren't ter? even ter fuck! Cunt! Eh, that's the beauty o' thee, lass!" She got up and kissed him between the eyes, that looked at her so dark and soft and unspeakably warm, so unbearably beautiful. "Is it?" she said. "And do you care for me?" He kissed her without answering. "Tha mun goo, let me dust thee," he said. His hand passed over the curves of her body, firmly, without desire, but with soft, intimate knowledge. As she ran home in the twilight the world seemed a dream; the trees in the park seemed bulging and surging at anchor on a tide, and the heave of the slope to the house was alive. CHAPTER XIII On Sunday Clifford wanted to go into the wood. It was a lovely morning, the pear blossom and plum had suddenly appeared in the world, in a wonder of white here and there.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  So Mary obeyed, sitting down beside her, and she laid a hand upon Stephen’s knee; but Stephen appeared not to notice that hand, for she just let it lie there and went on talking. ‘I’ve been thinking, Mary, hatching all sorts of schemes. I’d like to get you right away for a bit, the weather seems pretty awful in Paris. Puddle once told me about Teneriffe, she went there ages ago with a pupil. She stayed at a place called Orotava; it’s lovely, I believe—do you think you’d enjoy it? I might manage to hear of a villa with a garden, and then you could just slack about in the sunshine.’ Mary said, very conscious of the unnoticed hand: ‘Do you really want to go away, Stephen? Wouldn’t it interfere with your writing?’ Her voice, Stephen thought, sounded strained and unhappy. ‘Of course I want to go,’ Stephen reassured her, ‘I’ll work all the better for a holiday. Anyhow, I must see you looking more fit,’ and she suddenly laid her hand over Mary’s. The strange sympathy which sometimes exists between two human bodies, so that a touch will stir many secret and perilous emotions, closed down on them both at that moment of contact, and they sat unnaturally still by the fire, feeling that in their stillness lay safety. But presently Stephen went on talking, and now she talked of purely practical matters. Mary must go for a fortnight to her cousins, she had better go almost at once, and remain there while Stephen herself went to Morton. Eventually they would meet in London and from there motor straight away to Southampton, for Stephen would have taken their passages and if possible found a furnished villa, before she went down to Morton. She talked on and on, and as she did so her fingers tightened and relaxed abruptly on the hand that she had continued to hold, so that Mary imprisoned those nervous fingers in her own, and Stephen made no resistance. Then Mary, like many another before her, grew as happy as she had been downhearted; for the merest trifles are often enough to change the trend of mercurial emotions such as beset the heart in its youth; and she looked at Stephen with gratitude in her eyes, and with something far more fundamental of which she herself was unconscious. And now she began to talk in her turn. She could type fairly well, was a very good speller; she would type Stephen’s books, take care of her papers, answer her letters, look after the house, even beard the lugubrious Pauline in her kitchen. Next autumn she would write to Holland for bulbs—they must have lots of bulbs in their city garden, and in summer they ought to manage some roses—Paris was less cruel to flowers than London. Oh, and might she have pigeons with wide, white tails? They would go so well with the old marble fountain.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  As for Messer Torello, he could not contain his tears; wherefore, being hindered thereby, he answered, in a few words, that it was impossible his benefits and his nobility should ever escape his mind and that he would without fail do that which he enjoined him, whenas occasion should be afforded him; whereupon Saladin, having tenderly embraced him and kissed him, bade him with many tears God speed and departed the chamber. The other barons then all took leave of him and followed the Soldan into the hall where he had caused make ready the bed. Meanwhile, it waxing late and the nigromant awaiting and pressing for despatch, there came a physician to Messer Torello with a draught and making him believe that he gave it him to fortify him, caused him drink it; nor was it long ere he fell asleep and so, by Saladin's commandment, was carried into the hall and laid upon the bed aforesaid, whereon the Soldan placed a great and goodly crown of great price and inscribed it on such wise that it was after manifestly understood to be sent by him to Messer Torello's lady; after which he put on Torello's finger a ring, wherein was a carbuncle enchased, so resplendent that it seemed a lighted flambeau, the value whereof could scarce be reckoned, and girt him with a sword, whose garniture might not lightly be appraised. Moreover, he let hang a fermail on his breast, wherein were pearls whose like were never seen, together with other precious stones galore, and on his either side he caused set two great basins of gold, full of doubloons, and many strings of pearls and rings and girdles and other things, which it were tedious to recount, round about him. This done, he kissed him once more and bade the nigromant despatch, whereupon, in his presence, the bed was incontinent taken away, Messer Torello and all, and Saladin abode devising of him with his barons.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  white satin bow, deciding that only the four-legged were grate- ful. But at long last Adéle was arrayed to be wed, and must show herself shyly to Mary and Stephen. She looked very appealing with her good, honest tace; with her round, bright eyes like those of a blackbird. Stephen wished her well from the bottom of her heart, this girl who had waited so long for her mate — had so patiently and so faithfully waited. 2 In THE church were a number of friends and relations; to- gether with those who will journey for miles in order to attend a funeral or wedding. Poor Jean looked his worst in a cheap dress suit, and Stephen could smell the pomade on his hair; very greasy and warm it smelt, although scented. But his hand was unsteady as he groped for the ring, because he was feeling both proud and humble; because, loving much, he must love even more and conceive of himself as entirely unworthy. And something in that fumbling, unsteady hand, in that sleekly greased hair and those ill-fitting garments, touched Stephen, so that she longed to re- assure, to tell him how great was the gift he offered — security, peace, and love with honour. The young priest gravely repeated the prayers — ancient, primitive prayers, yet softened through custom. {n her mauve silk dress Pauline wept as she knelt; but Pierre’s handkerchief was spread out on the stool to preserve the knees of his new grey trousers. Next to Stephen were sitting Pauline’s two brothers, one in uniform, the other retired and in mufti, but both wearing medals upon their breasts and thus worthily representing the army. The baker was there with his wife and three daughters, and since the latter were still unmarried, their eyes were more often fixed upon Jean in his shoddy dress suit than upon their Missals. The greengrocer accompanied the lady whose chickens it was Pauline’s habit to prod on their breastbones; while the cobbler who mended Pierre’s boots and shoes, sat ogling the buxom and comely young laundress. 454 THE WELL OF LONELINESS The Mass drew to its close. The priest asked that a blessing might be accomplished upon the couple; asked that these two might live to behold, not only their own but their children’s children, even unto the third and fourth generation. Then he spoke of their duty to God and to each other, and finally moist- ened their bowed young heads with a generous sprinkling of holy water. And so in the church of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires — that bountiful Virgin who bestows many graces — Jean and his Adéle were made one flesh in the eyes of their church, in the eyes of their God, and as one might confront the world without flinching.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Berenice put her brandy on a side table and went over to the window to close the drapes. She added another log to the fire. It caught immediately, so that the room brightened and grew quite warm. Her robe had no sash. As she moved about, it fell open from time to time and displayed the full lines of her figure. Her skin was slightly brown, her hips generous, the whole effect sensuous and maternal. Well aware of Clarissa’s attention, she came back to the sofa and curled herself up as before. They sat in companionable silence, sipping and watching the fire. Some color returned to Clarissa’s face. She let go one shuddering sigh and then carefully set her cup and saucer on a low table. Turning, she put her hands beneath the cushion and sought out her mistress’s supple feet. “May I warm you?” she pleaded. “If it will comfort you.” Clarissa chafed them tenderly between her soft hands, held them to her breast, then gently laid them down and began to kiss the toes and insteps. Suddenly her misery returned in full force, and she wept over those beautiful feet, kissing the tears away and drying them with her hair. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she hiccupped, “but—but—” Strong arms gathered her in, the red satin robe opened to receive her, and she was enthroned in her lover’s lap. “I’m not sorry to learn that you will miss me,” Berenice said. That wonderfully husky voice! Clarissa thought, how much I lover her, and sobbed, “Oh, I shall—ever so!” “… as long as this outburst is no sign that you intend to disobey me.” “No! No, I’ll do whatever you want. Only let me come back. I know you won’t have me if I’m bad. But if I am good, you will let me come back, won’t you?” “Of course, silly girl. This is your home. It’s only six months of school, not a lifetime sentence of permanent exile. If you tried to run away, I would seek you with all my powers and bring you back, even from the ends of the earth.” Clarissa snuggled between her breasts. In their shelter, she was almost reassured. “Six months isn’t such a long time,” she murmured, trying to sound grown up. “Are you sleepy?” “No.” “Fetch my brandy. Elise is doing your packing. We’ll spend your last night home together, in the discipline chamber.” Clarissa shivered, then slipped off her lap and took up the snifter of brandy. The lamplight shone through the liqueur so that a small amber circle floated, shimmering, below her clavicle. Berenice remained seated, enjoying the sight of the tiny steps permitted by the silver chain (which was thin enough to break) and the high-heeled shoes. She was proud of this fair child, and determined not to spoil her by slacking in correction or stinting in affection. Seeing that Clarissa was prepared to mince after her, she strode out of the room and down the hall.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I have no judgment, no snap. I’ll pick up a killer or a cop for sure. I run after her, and she spins around. The puppy has acquired a more defensive attitude. Her black eye makes me wince. It’s puffed-out and raw, and so is part of her lip. Her clothes don’t look new any more. There’s blood and puke on the T-shirt. Her ersatz collar and the plastic jacket are gone. She must have just gotten out of jail. “I don’t have any money,” she says, as if she has read my mind and knows that I want her to save me, take me in out of the cold that is deepening as it gets darker. “I lost my job. My collective has put all my stuff on the street. I was hoping maybe Lefty would be here. He seemed to be a nice guy. Maybe he would have helped me save some of my belongings. I’m going to have to find a cheap place to stay.” Well. My name is Noh Mann, but I am a nice guy, too, and her assumption that she won’t get any help from me stings. But nothing will come out of my mouth. I hang on the tips of my toes, breathing like a hummingbird, knowing the next move I make will create a whole new chapter in my life, whether I go back to my cubicle alone or bring her with me. Am I afraid she will refuse me? That is papal bull. She doesn’t have any place else to go, and she knows it. Somebody is going to have to teach this girl-child how to live, or she’s going to jump off a bridge. Two divergent vistas open up, and all the power I have is in me, the power to make a choice before I know what the consequences will be. I say, “In all of that stuff of yours, do you have a tea kettle?” “Why, yes,” she says, clearly thinking I have gone andro. “Okay. Let’s start walking. Now, listen to me, I’m going to tell you how it is and how it’s going to be. “I don’t love you. But somebody is going to have to take care of you and teach you what’s what. If I slap you around a little, it’s to make sure you listen.” I talk, she nods, we walk fast. It’s cold. I take off my leather jacket and make her put it on.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Meanwhile, Alessandro, after waiting several years in England for peace, seeing that it came not and himseeming that not only was his tarrying there in vain, but that he went in danger of his life, determined to return to Italy. Accordingly, he set out all alone and as chance would have it, coming out of Bruges, he saw an abbot of white friars likewise issuing thence, accompanied by many monks and with a numerous household and a great baggage-train in his van. After him came two old knights, kinsmen of the King, whom Alessandro accosted as acquaintances and was gladly admitted into their company. As he journeyed with them, he asked them softly who were the monks that rode in front with so great a train and whither they were bound; and one of them answered, 'He who rideth yonder is a young gentleman of our kindred, who hath been newly elected abbot of one of the most considerable abbeys of England, and for that he is younger than is suffered by the laws for such a dignity, we go with him to Rome to obtain of the Holy Father that he dispense him of his defect of overmuch youthfulness and confirm him in the dignity aforesaid; but this must not be spoken of with any.' The new abbot, faring on thus, now in advance of his retinue and now in their rear, as daily we see it happen with noblemen on a journey, chanced by the way to see near him Alessandro, who was a young man exceedingly goodly of person and favour, well-bred, agreeable and fair of fashion as any might be, and who at first sight pleased him marvellously, as nought had ever done, and calling him to his side, fell a-discoursing pleasantly with him, asking him who he was and whence he came and whither he was bound; whereupon Alessandro frankly discovered to him his whole case and satisfied his questions, offering himself to his service in what little he might. The abbot, hearing his goodly and well-ordered speech, took more particular note of his manners and inwardly judging him to be a man of gentle breeding, for all his business had been mean, grew yet more enamoured of his pleasantness and full of compassion for his mishaps, comforted him on very friendly wise, bidding him be of good hope, for that, an he were a man of worth, God would yet replace him in that estate whence fortune had cast him down, nay, in a yet higher. Moreover, he prayed him, since he was bound for Tuscany, that it would please him bear him company, inasmuch as himself was likewise on the way thitherward; whereupon Alessandro returned him thanks for his encouragement and declared himself ready to his every commandment.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Then, desirous of seeing Jeannette, he began beggarwise, to haunt the neighbourhood of her house, where one day Jamy Lamiens, (for so was Jeannette's husband called,) espying him and having compassion on him, for that he saw him old and poor, bade one of his servants bring him in and give him to eat for the love of God, which the man readily did. Now Jeannette had had several children by Jamy, whereof the eldest was no more than eight years old, and they were the handsomest and sprightliest children in the world. When they saw the count eat, they came one and all about him and began to caress him, as if, moved by some occult virtue, they divined him to be their grandfather. He, knowing them for his grandchildren, fell to fondling and making much of them, wherefore the children would not leave him, albeit he who had charge of their governance called them. Jeannette, hearing this, issued forth of a chamber therenigh and coming whereas the count was, chid them amain and threatened to beat them, an they did not what their governor willed. The children began to weep and say that they would fain abide with that honest man, who loved them better than their governor, whereat both the lady and the count laughed. Now the latter had risen, nowise as a father, but as a poor man, to do honour to his daughter, as to a mistress, and seeing her, felt a marvellous pleasure at his heart. But she nor then nor after knew him any whit, for that he was beyond measure changed from what he was used to be, being grown old and hoar and bearded and lean and swart, and appeared altogether another man than the count.