Поворот винта

           “They’rehere,they’rehere,youlittlewretches,”Iwouldhavecried,“andyoucan’tdenyitnow!”Thelittlewretchesdenieditwithalltheaddedvolumeoftheirsociabilityandtheirtenderness,injustthecrystaldepthsofwhich—liketheflashofafishinastream—themockeryoftheiradvantagepeepedup.Theshock,intruth,hadsunkintomestilldeeperthanIknewonthenightwhen,lookingouttoseeeitherQuintorMissJesselunderthestars,IhadbeheldtheboyoverwhoserestIwatchedandwhohadimmediatelybroughtinwithhim—hadstraightway,there,turneditonme—thelovelyupwardlookwithwhich,fromthebattlementsaboveme,thehideousapparitionofQuinthadplayed.Ifitwasaquestionofascare,mydiscoveryonthisoccasionhadscaredmemorethananyother,anditwasintheconditionofnervesproducedbyitthatImademyactualinductions.Theyharassedmesothatsometimes,atoddmoments,Ishutmyselfupaudiblytorehearse—itwasatonceafantasticreliefandareneweddespair—themannerinwhichImightcometothepoint.Iapproacheditfromonesideandtheotherwhile,inmyroom,Iflungmyselfabout,butIalwaysbrokedowninthemonstrousutteranceofnames.Astheydiedawayonmylips,IsaidtomyselfthatIshouldindeedhelpthemtorepresentsomethinginfamous,if,bypronouncingthem,Ishouldviolateasrarealittlecaseofinstinctivedelicacyasanyschoolroom,probably,hadeverknown.