Мидлмарч

Chapter 9

           Thiswasthehappysideofthehouse,forthesouthandeastlookedrathermelancholyevenunderthebrightestmorning.Thegroundshereweremoreconfined,theflower-bedsshowednoverycarefultendance,andlargeclumpsoftrees,chieflyofsombreyews,hadrisenhigh,nottenyardsfromthewindows.Thebuilding,ofgreenishstone,wasintheoldEnglishstyle,notugly,butsmall-windowedandmelancholy-looking:thesortofhousethatmusthavechildren,manyflowers,openwindows,andlittlevistasofbrightthings,tomakeitseemajoyoushome.Inthislatterendofautumn,withasparseremnantofyellowleavesfallingslowlyathwartthedarkevergreensinastillnesswithoutsunshine,thehousetoohadanairofautumnaldecline,andMr.Casaubon,whenhepresentedhimself,hadnobloomthatcouldbethrownintoreliefbythatbackground.

           "Ohdear!"Celiasaidtoherself,"IamsureFreshittHallwouldhavebeenpleasanterthanthis."Shethoughtofthewhitefreestone,thepillaredportico,andtheterracefullofflowers,SirJamessmilingabovethemlikeaprinceissuingfromhisenchantmentinarose-bush,withahandkerchiefswiftlymetamorphosedfromthemostdelicatelyodorouspetalsSirJames,whotalkedsoagreeably,alwaysaboutthingswhichhadcommon-senseinthem,andnotaboutlearning!Celiahadthoselightyoungfemininetasteswhichgraveandweatherworngentlemensometimespreferinawife;buthappilyMr.Casaubon’sbiashadbeendifferent,forhewouldhavehadnochancewithCelia.

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