Тяжёлые времена

Mrs. Sparsit’s Staircase

           Sparsit,inherchamberwindow,restingfromherpackingoperations,lookedtowardshergreatstaircaseandsawLouisastilldescending.

           ShesatbyMr.Harthouse,inanalcoveinthegarden,talkingverylow;hestoodleaningoverher,astheywhisperedtogether,andhisfacealmosttouchedherhair.‘Ifnotquite!’saidMrs.Sparsit,strainingherhawk’seyestotheutmost.Mrs.Sparsitwastoodistanttohearawordoftheirdiscourse,oreventoknowthattheywerespeakingsoftly,otherwisethanfromtheexpressionoftheirfigures;butwhattheysaidwasthis:

           ‘Yourecollecttheman,Mr.Harthouse?’

           ‘Oh,perfectly!’

           ‘Hisface,andhismanner,andwhathesaid?’

           ‘Perfectly.Andaninfinitelydrearypersonheappearedtometobe.Lengthyandprosyintheextreme.Itwasknowingtoholdforth,inthehumble-virtueschoolofeloquence;but,IassureyouIthoughtatthetime,“Mygoodfellow,youareover-doingthis!”’

           ‘Ithasbeenverydifficulttometothinkillofthatman.’

           ‘MydearLouisaasTomsays.’Whichheneverdidsay.‘Youknownogoodofthefellow?’

           ‘No,certainly.

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