Возвращение на родину

VIII. Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers

           Therainstillcontinued,thecandlelightfallinguponthenearestdropsandmakingglisteningdartsofthemastheydescendedacrossthethrongofinvisibleonesbehind.Toplungeintothatmediumwastoplungeintowaterslightlydilutedwithair.Butthedifficultyofreturningtoherhouseatthismomentmadeherallthemoredesirousofdoingso—anythingwasbetterthansuspense.“Ihavecomeherewellenough,”shesaid,“andwhyshouldn’tIgobackagain?Itisamistakeformetobeaway.”

           Shehastilyfetchedtheinfant,wrappeditup,cloakedherselfasbefore,andshovelingtheashesoverthefire,topreventaccidents,wentintotheopenair.Pausingfirsttoputthedoorkeyinitsoldplacebehindtheshutter,sheresolutelyturnedherfacetotheconfrontingpileoffirmamentaldarknessbeyondthepalings,andsteppedintoitsmidst.ButThomasin’simaginationbeingsoactivelyengagedelsewhere,thenightandtheweatherhadforhernoterrorbeyondthatoftheiractualdiscomfortanddifficulty.

           ShewassoonascendingBlooms-Endvalleyandtraversingtheundulationsonthesideofthehill.Thenoiseofthewindovertheheathwasshrill,andasifitwhistledforjoyatfindinganightsocongenialasthis.Sometimesthepathledhertohollowsbetweenthicketsoftallanddrippingbracken,dead,thoughnotyetprostrate,whichenclosedherlikeapool.Whentheyweremorethanusuallytallsheliftedthebabytothetopofherhead,thatitmightbeoutofthereachoftheirdrenchingfronds.

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