Поворот винта

           IngoingonwiththerecordofwhatwashideousatBly,Inotonlychallengethemostliberalfaith—forwhichIlittlecare;but—andthisisanothermatter—IrenewwhatImyselfsuffered,Iagainpushmywaythroughittotheend.Therecamesuddenlyanhourafterwhich,asIlookback,theaffairseemstometohavebeenallpuresuffering;butIhaveatleastreachedtheheartofit,andthestraightestroadoutisdoubtlesstoadvance.Oneevening—withnothingtoleaduportoprepareit—Ifeltthecoldtouchoftheimpressionthathadbreathedonmethenightofmyarrivalandwhich,muchlighterthen,asIhavementioned,Ishouldprobablyhavemadelittleofinmemoryhadmysubsequentsojournbeenlessagitated.Ihadnotgonetobed;Isatreadingbyacoupleofcandles.TherewasaroomfulofoldbooksatBly—last-centuryfiction,someofit,which,totheextentofadistinctlydeprecatedrenown,butnevertosomuchasthatofastrayspecimen,hadreachedthesequesteredhomeandappealedtotheunavowedcuriosityofmyyouth.IrememberthatthebookIhadinmyhandwasFielding’sAmelia;alsothatIwaswhollyawake.Irecallfurtherbothageneralconvictionthatitwashorriblylateandaparticularobjectiontolookingatmywatch.Ifigure,finally,thatthewhitecurtaindraping,inthefashionofthosedays,theheadofFlora’slittlebed,shrouded,asIhadassuredmyselflongbefore,theperfectionofchildishrest.