Мидлмарч

Chapter 47

           Hewasexperimentingintunestosuitsomewordsofhisown,sometimestryingaready-mademelody,sometimesimprovising.Thewordswerenotexactlyahymn,buttheycertainlyfittedhisSundayexperience:—

           "Ome,Ome,whatfrugalcheerMylovedothfeedupon!Atouch,aray,thatisnothere,Ashadowthatisgone:

           "Adreamofbreaththatmightbenear,Aninly-echoedtone,Thethoughtthatonemaythinkmedear,Theplacewhereonewasknown,

           "Thetremorofabanishedfear,Anillthatwasnotdone—Ome,Ome,whatfrugalcheerMylovedothfeedupon!"

           Sometimes,whenhetookoffhishat,shakinghisheadbackward,andshowinghisdelicatethroatashesang,helookedlikeanincarnationofthespringwhosespiritfilledtheairabrightcreature,abundantinuncertainpromises.

           ThebellswerestillringingwhenhegottoLowick,andhewentintothecurate’spewbeforeanyoneelsearrivedthere.Buthewasstillleftaloneinitwhenthecongregationhadassembled.Thecurate’spewwasoppositetherector’sattheentranceofthesmallchancel,andWillhadtimetofearthatDorotheamightnotcomewhilehelookedroundatthegroupofruralfaceswhichmadethecongregationfromyeartoyearwithinthewhite-washedwallsanddarkoldpews,hardlywithmorechangethanweseeintheboughsofatreewhichbreakshereandtherewithage,butyethasyoungshoots.Mr.

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