Лето

XI

           Butitmusthavebeenexceptionallywellbuilt,forthelittleroomshadkeptsomethingoftheirhumanaspect:thewoodenmantelswiththeirneatclassicornamentswereinplace,andthecornersofoneceilingretainedalightfilmofplastertracery.

           Harneyhadfoundanoldbenchatthebackdooranddraggeditintothehouse.Charitysatonit,leaningherheadagainstthewallinastateofdrowsylassitude.Hehadguessedthatshewashungryandthirsty,andhadbroughthersometabletsofchocolatefromhisbicycle-bag,andfilledhisdrinking-cupfromaspringintheorchard;andnowhesatatherfeet,smokingacigarette,andlookingupatherwithoutspeaking.Outside,theafternoonshadowswerelengtheningacrossthegrass,andthroughtheemptywindow-framethatfacedhershesawtheMountainthrustingitsdarkmassagainstasultrysunset.Itwastimetogo.

           Shestoodup,andhesprangtohisfeetalso,andpassedhisarmthroughherswithanairofauthority.“Now,Charity,you’recomingbackwithme.”

           Shelookedathimandshookherhead.“Iain’tevergoingback.Youdon’tknow.”

           “Whatdon’tIknow?”Shewassilent,andhecontinued:“Whathappenedonthewharfwashorrible—it’snaturalyoushouldfeelasyoudo.Butitdoesn’tmakeanyrealdifference:youcan’tbehurtbysuchthings.Youmusttrytoforget.Andyoumusttrytounderstandthatmen...mensometimes...”

           “Iknowaboutmen.That’swhy.”

           Hecolouredalittleattheretort,asthoughithadtouchedhiminawayshedidnotsuspect.

           “Well,then...youmustknowonehastomakeallowances...

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