Page 131 - BraveNewWorld

IDPH 131

“Plea-ease.”
“Damned whore!”
“A gra-amme is be-etter .” she began.

The Savage pushed her away with such force that she staggered and fell. “Go,”
he shouted, standing over her menacingly, “get out of my sight or I’ll kill you.”
He clenched his fists.
Lenina raised her arm to cover her face. “No, please don’t, John .”
“Hurry up. Quick!”

One arm still raised, and following his every movement with a terrified eye, she
scrambled to her feet and still crouching, still covering her head, made a dash
for the bathroom.
The noise of that prodigious slap by which her departure was accelerated was
like a pistol shot.

“Ow!” Lenina bounded forward.
Safely locked into the bathroom, she had leisure to take stock of her injuries.
Standing with her back to the mirror, she twisted her head. Looking over her
left shoulder she could see the imprint of an open hand standing out distinct
and crimson on the pearly flesh. Gingerly she rubbed the wounded spot.
Outside, in the other room, the Savage was striding up and down, marching,
marching to the drums and music of magical words. “The wren goes to’t and
the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight.” Maddeningly they rumbled in
his ears. “The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to’t with a more riotous appe-
tite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs, though women all above. But to
the girdle do the gods inherit. Beneath is all the fiend’s. There’s hell, there’s
darkness, there is the sulphurous pit, burning scalding, stench, consumption;
fie, fie, fie, pain, pain! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten
my imagination.”
“John!” ventured a small ingratiating voice from the bathroom. “John!”
“O thou weed, who are so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet that the sense aches
at thee. Was this most goodly book made to write ’whore’ upon? Heaven stops
the nose at it .”

But her perfume still hung about him, his jacket was white with the powder
that had scented her velvety body. “Impudent strumpet, impudent strumpet,
impudent strumpet.” The inexorable rhythm beat itself out. “Impudent .”
“John, do you think I might have my clothes?”

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