Мидлмарч

Chapter 53

           Bulstrode;Imustbegettinghome,"setoffatatrot.

           "Youdidn’tputyourfulladdresstothisletter,"Rafflescontinued."Thatwasnotlikethefirst-ratemanofbusinessyouusedtobe.‘TheShrubs,’—theymaybeanywhere:youlivenearathand,eh?havecuttheLondonconcernaltogetherperhapsturnedcountrysquirehavearuralmansiontoinvitemeto.Lord,howmanyyearsitisago!Theoldladymusthavebeendeadaprettylongwhilegonetoglorywithoutthepainofknowinghowpoorherdaughterwas,eh?But,byJove!you’reverypaleandpasty,Nick.Come,ifyou’regoinghome,I’llwalkbyyourside."

           Mr.Bulstrode’susualpalenesshadinfacttakenanalmostdeathlyhue.Fiveminutesbefore,theexpanseofhislifehadbeensubmergedinitseveningsunshinewhichshonebackwardtoitsrememberedmorning:sinseemedtobeaquestionofdoctrineandinwardpenitence,humiliationanexerciseofthecloset,thebearingofhisdeedsamatterofprivatevisionadjustedsolelybyspiritualrelationsandconceptionsofthedivinepurposes.Andnow,asifbysomehideousmagic,thisloudredfigurehadrisenbeforehiminunmanageablesolidityanincorporatepastwhichhadnotenteredintohisimaginationofchastisements.ButMr.Bulstrode’sthoughtwasbusy,andhewasnotamantoactorspeakrashly.

           "Iwasgoinghome,"hesaid,"butIcandefermyridealittle.Andyoucan,ifyouplease,resthere.

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