Impotent husband

I returned from the war a broken man — not in spirit, but in body. The trenches had taken my mobility, and with it, some say, my manhood. But I had my mind, my writing, and Wragby Hall. Most of all, I had Connie — young, intelligent, beautiful. I thought that would be enough. At first, she took care of me with such gentleness. But as the seasons turned, I could feel her slipping away — not with cruelty, but in quiet ways. I immersed myself in my work, in my ideas of industry and progress. I told myself that physical love was overrated, that the intellect was superior. Yet even I could sense the distance growing between us. Then came Mellors — the gamekeeper. A coarse man by birth, but with a strange, stubborn dignity. I knew something was happening between them, before either of them admitted it. There was a change in her eyes, a warmth in her voice that no longer belonged to me. I wanted her to find some kind of happiness — within reason. Even sanctioned the idea of a child, if it meant keeping our marriage intact. But she wanted more than my permission; she wanted freedom. She wanted love not arranged or rationed like war supplies, but overflowing, primal.