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She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him.But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit and she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone.She is in a dreamworld, truly conscious only of the warmth inside of her.Clifford, on the other hand, is empty inside, beginning now to resent the distance between them.He reflects on the difficulty of his position: entanglement with Connie will be emotionally taxing, and will create any number of logistical difficulties. Standing outside Wragby in the darkness, thinking of Connie, he is seen by Mrs.Bolton, who--having guessed earlier by Connie's actions that she was having an affair--realizes that Mellors must be the man.
One day, in a spasm of hopeless tenderness for the young chicks, she has a breakdown at the hut.
They leave each other, and Mellors--now torn from his solitude--muses about the importance of desire and tenderness, and the evils of the mechanized industrial world.
For her part, Connie is confused: she knows that she does not love Mellors, but is happy that he has been kind not to her personality--to her mind and intellect, which she is coming to believe are meaningless--but to "the female in her." The next day, they meet once again at the hut.
Accept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life.
The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes.
Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.