In her own infallible purity, she had done what must be done.

She was right, she was pure.

A drugged, almost sinister religious expression became permanent on her face.
Birkin, barely conscious, and yet perfectly direct in his motion, went out of the house and straight across the park, to the open country, to the hills.

The brilliant day had become overcast, spots of rain were falling.

He wandered on to a wild valley-side, where were thickets of hazel, many flowers, tufts of heather, and little clumps of young firtrees, budding with soft paws.