Buthisdreadwasthenightswhenhecouldnotsleep。Thenitwasawfulindeed，whenannihilationpressedinonhimoneveryside。Thenitwasghastly，toexistwithouthavinganylife：lifeless，inthenight，toexist。
ButnowhecouldringforMrsBolton。Andshewouldalwayscome。Thatwasagreatcomfort。Shewouldcomeinherdressinggown，withherhairinaplaitdownherback，curiouslygirlishanddim，thoughthebrownplaitwasstreakedwithgrey。Andshewouldmakehimcoffeeorcamomiletea，andshewouldplaychessorpiquetwithhim。Shehadawoman’squeerfacultyofplayingevenchesswellenough，whenshewasthreepartsasleep，wellenoughtomakeherworthbeating。So，inthesilentintimacyofthenight，theysat，orshesatandhelayonthebed，withthereading-lampsheddingitssolitarylightonthem，shealmostgoneinsleep，healmostgoneinasortoffear，andtheyplayed，playedtogether——thentheyhadacupofcoffeeandabiscuittogether，hardlyspeaking，inthesilenceofnight，butbeingareassurancetooneanother。
AndthisnightshewaswonderingwhoLadyChatterley’sloverwas。AndshewasthinkingofherownTed，solongdead，yetforherneverquitedead。Andwhenshethoughtofhim，theold，oldgrudgeagainsttheworldroseup，butespeciallyagainstthemasters，thattheyhadkilledhim。
Theyhadnotreallykilledhim。Yet，toher，emotionally，theyhad。Andsomewheredeepinherselfbecauseofit，shewasanihilist，andreallyanarchic。
Inherhalf-sleep，thoughtsofherTedandthoughtsofLadyChatterley’sunknownlovercommingled，andthenshefeltshesharedwiththeotherwomanagreatgrudgeagainstSirCliffordandallhestoodfor。Atthesametimeshewasplayingpiquetwithhim，andtheyweregamblingsixpences。Anditwasasourceofsatisfactiontobeplayingpiquetwithabaronet，andevenlosingsixpencestohim。