"You're going to! You mean you're sure! How long have you been sure?"
"Since June."
He was speechless, and the queer blank look of a child came over him again.
"You'd wonder," he said at last, "that such beings were ever allowed to be born."
"What beings?" she asked.
He looked at her weirdly, without an answer. It was obvious he couldn't even accept the fact of the existence of Mellors, in any connection with his own life. It was sheer, unspeakable, impotent hate.
"And do you mean to say you'd marry him?—and bear his foul name?" he asked at length.
"Yes, that's what I want."
He was again as if dumbfounded.
"Yes!" he said at last. "That proves that what I've always thought about you is correct: you're not normal, you're not in your right senses. You're one of those half-insane, perverted women who must run after depravity, the nostalgie de la boue."