I've read a lot of D. H. Lawrence at various times in my life, the best part of that writing made better for the times I'd read it. St Mawr is a book -- a long short story -- about a woman and a fiery stallion that often came up after finishing one of his novels or stories and poking into what scholars had to say about it. I always intended to pick up a copy. Recently I found one.
"She kept it utterly a secret, to herself. Because Rico would just have lifted his long upper lip, in his bare face, in a condescending sort of "understanding." And her mother would, as usual, have suspected her of side-stepping. People, all the people she knew, seemed so entirely contained with their cardboard let's-be-happy world. Their wills were fixed like machines on happiness, or fun, or the best-ever. This ghastly cheery-o! touch, that made all her blood go numb." (27)
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