Дэвид Копперфильд

I Make Another Beginning

           

           Atlengthwestoppedbeforeaveryoldhousebulgingoutovertheroad;ahousewithlonglowlattice-windowsbulgingoutstillfarther,andbeamswithcarvedheadsontheendsbulgingouttoo,sothatIfanciedthewholehousewasleaningforward,tryingtoseewhowaspassingonthenarrowpavementbelow.Itwasquitespotlessinitscleanliness.Theold-fashionedbrassknockeronthelowarcheddoor,ornamentedwithcarvedgarlandsoffruitandflowers,twinkledlikeastar;thetwostonestepsdescendingtothedoorwereaswhiteasiftheyhadbeencoveredwithfairlinen;andalltheanglesandcorners,andcarvingsandmouldings,andquaintlittlepanesofglass,andquainterlittlewindows,thoughasoldasthehills,wereaspureasanysnowthateverfelluponthehills.

           Whenthepony-chaisestoppedatthedoor,andmyeyeswereintentuponthehouse,Isawacadaverousfaceappearatasmallwindowonthegroundfloor(inalittleroundtowerthatformedonesideofthehouse),andquicklydisappear.Thelowarcheddoorthenopened,andthefacecameout.Itwasquiteascadaverousasithadlookedinthewindow,thoughinthegrainofittherewasthattingeofredwhichissometimestobeobservedintheskinsofred-hairedpeople.

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