![]() ![]() ![]() They came to start housekeeping and married life in the rather forlorn home of the Chatterleys on a rather inadequate income. His father had died, Clifford was now a baronet, Sir Clifford, and Constance was Lady Chatterley. They returned, Clifford and Constance, to his home, Wragby Hall, the family 'seat'. Then he was pronounced a cure, and could return to life again, with the lower half of his body, from the hips down, paralysed for ever. For two years he remained in the doctor's hands. He didn't die, and the bits seemed to grow together again. Constance, his wife, was then twenty-three years old, and he was twenty-nine. Then he went back to Flanders: to be shipped over to England again six months later, more or less in bits. She married Clifford Chatterley in 1917, when he was home for a month on leave. And she had realized that one must live and learn. The war had brought the roof down over her head. This was more or less Constance Chatterley's position. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. ![]() ![]() Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. This online edition was created and published by Global Grey on the 17th October 2021. ![]()
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