Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           

           Mydinnerwentawayalmostuntasted,andItriedtorefreshmyselfwithaglassortwoofwine.Invain.Ifellintoadullslumberbeforethefire,withoutlosingmyconsciousness,eitheroftheuproaroutofdoors,oroftheplaceinwhichIwas.Bothbecameovershadowedbyanewandindefinablehorror;andwhenIawokeorratherwhenIshookoffthelethargythatboundmeinmychair-mywholeframethrilledwithobjectlessandunintelligiblefear.

           Iwalkedtoandfro,triedtoreadanoldgazetteer,listenedtotheawfulnoises:lookedatfaces,scenes,andfiguresinthefire.Atlength,thesteadytickingoftheundisturbedclockonthewalltormentedmetothatdegreethatIresolvedtogotobed.

           Itwasreassuring,onsuchanight,tobetoldthatsomeoftheinn-servantshadagreedtogethertositupuntilmorning.Iwenttobed,exceedinglywearyandheavy;but,onmylyingdown,allsuchsensationsvanished,asifbymagic,andIwasbroadawake,witheverysenserefined.

           ForhoursIlaythere,listeningtothewindandwater;imagining,now,thatIheardshrieksoutatsea;now,thatIdistinctlyheardthefiringofsignalguns;andnow,thefallofhousesinthetown.Igotup,severaltimes,andlookedout;butcouldseenothing,exceptthereflectioninthewindow-panesofthefaintcandleIhadleftburning,andofmyownhaggardfacelookinginatmefromtheblackvoid.

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