Луна и грош

Chapter XXXI

           Hehadoftenspokentomeofthesilenttown,somewhereupinthenorthofHolland,wherehisparentsstilllived.Theywerepoorpeople.Hisfatherwasacarpenter,andtheydweltinalittleoldred-brickhouse,neatandclean,bythesideofasluggishcanal.Thestreetswerewideandempty;fortwohundredyearstheplacehadbeendying,butthehouseshadthehomelystatelinessoftheirtime.Richmerchants,sendingtheirwarestothedistantIndies,hadlivedinthemcalmandprosperouslives,andintheirdecentdecaytheykeptstillanaromaoftheirsplendidpast.Youcouldwanderalongthecanaltillyoucametobroadgreenfields,withwindmillshereandthere,inwhichcattle,blackandwhite,grazedlazily.Ithoughtthatamongthosesurroundings,withtheirrecollectionsofhisboyhood,DirkStroevewouldforgethisunhappiness.Buthewouldnotgo.

           "Imustbeherewhensheneedsme,"herepeated."ItwouldbedreadfulifsomethingterriblehappenedandIwerenotathand."

           "Whatdoyouthinkisgoingtohappen?"Iasked.

           "Idon’tknow.ButI’mafraid."

           Ishruggedmyshoulders.

           Forallhispain,DirkStroeveremainedaridiculousobject.Hemighthaveexcitedsympathyifhehadgrownwornandthin.Hedidnothingofthekind.Heremainedfat,andhisround,redcheeksshonelikeripeapples.Hehadgreatneatnessofperson,andhecontinuedtowearhisspruceblackcoatandhisbowlerhat,alwaysalittletoosmallforhim,inadapper,jauntymanner.Hewasgettingsomethingofapaunch,andsorrowhadnoeffectonit.Helookedmorethaneverlikeaprosperousbagman

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