Поворот винта

           WhatifIshouldgostraightinandmarchtohiswindow?—whatif,byriskingtohisboyishbewildermentarevelationofmymotive,Ishouldthrowacrosstherestofthemysterythelonghalterofmyboldness?

           Thisthoughtheldmesufficientlytomakemecrosstohisthresholdandpauseagain.Ipreternaturallylistened;Ifiguredtomyselfwhatmightportentouslybe;Iwonderedifhisbedwerealsoemptyandhetooweresecretlyatwatch.Itwasadeep,soundlessminute,attheendofwhichmyimpulsefailed.Hewasquiet;hemightbeinnocent;theriskwashideous;Iturnedaway.Therewasafigureinthegrounds—afigureprowlingforasight,thevisitorwithwhomFlorawasengaged;butitwasnotthevisitormostconcernedwithmyboy.Ihesitatedafresh,butonothergroundsandonlyforafewseconds;thenIhadmademychoice.TherewereemptyroomsatBly,anditwasonlyaquestionofchoosingtherightone.Therightonesuddenlypresenteditselftomeasthelowerone—thoughhighabovethegardens—inthesolidcornerofthehousethatIhavespokenofastheoldtower.Thiswasalarge,squarechamber,arrangedwithsomestateasabedroom,theextravagantsizeofwhichmadeitsoinconvenientthatithadnotforyears,thoughkeptbyMrs.Groseinexemplaryorder,beenoccupied.IhadoftenadmireditandIknewmywayaboutinit;Ihadonly,afterjustfalteringatthefirstchillgloomofitsdisuse,topassacrossitandunboltasquietlyasIcouldoneoftheshutters