Дублинцы
The Dead
Then,slippingonearmswiftlyaboutherbodyanddrawinghertowardshim,hesaidsoftly:
“Gretta,dear,whatareyouthinkingabout?”
Shedidnotanswernoryieldwhollytohisarm.Hesaidagain,softly:
“Tellmewhatitis,Gretta.IthinkIknowwhatisthematter.DoIknow?”
Shedidnotansweratonce.Thenshesaidinanoutburstoftears:
“O,Iamthinkingaboutthatsong,TheLassofAughrim.”
Shebrokeloosefromhimandrantothebedand,throwingherarmsacrossthebed-rail,hidherface.Gabrielstoodstockstillforamomentinastonishmentandthenfollowedher.Ashepassedinthewayofthecheval-glasshecaughtsightofhimselfinfulllength,hisbroad,well-filledshirt-front,thefacewhoseexpressionalwayspuzzledhimwhenhesawitinamirror,andhisglimmeringgilt-rimmedeyeglasses.Hehaltedafewpacesfromherandsaid:
“Whataboutthesong?Whydoesthatmakeyoucry?”
Sheraisedherheadfromherarmsanddriedhereyeswiththebackofherhandlikeachild.Akindernotethanhehadintendedwentintohisvoice.
“Why,Gretta?”heasked.
“Iamthinkingaboutapersonlongagowhousedtosingthatsong.”
“Andwhowasthepersonlongago?”askedGabriel,smiling.
“ItwasapersonIusedtoknowinGalwaywhenIwaslivingwithmygrandmother,”shesaid.
