Сестра Керри

Chapter XV. The Irk Of The Old Ties: The Magic Of Youth

           Shewantedpleasure,shewantedposition,andyetshewasconfusedastowhatthesethingsmightbe.Everyhourthekaleidoscopeofhumanaffairsthrewanewlustreuponsomething,andtherewithitbecameforherthedesired—theall.Anothershiftofthebox,andsomeotherhadbecomethebeautiful,theperfect.

           Onherspiritualside,also,shewasrichinfeeling,assuchanaturewellmightbe.Sorrowinherwasarousedbymanyaspectacle—anuncriticalupwellingofgrieffortheweakandthehelpless.Shewasconstantlypainedbythesightofthewhite-faced,raggedmenwhosloppeddesperatelybyherinasortofwretchedmentalstupor.Thepoorlycladgirlswhowentblowingbyherwindowevenings,hurryinghomefromsomeoftheshopsoftheWestSide,shepitiedfromthedepthsofherheart.Shewouldstandandbiteherlipsastheypassed,shakingherlittleheadandwondering.Theyhadsolittle,shethought.Itwassosadtoberaggedandpoor.Thehangoffadedclothespainedhereyes.

           “Andtheyhavetoworksohard!”washeronlycomment.

           Onthestreetsometimesshewouldseemenworking—Irishmenwithpicks,coal-heaverswithgreatloadstoshovel,Americansbusyaboutsomeworkwhichwasamerematterofstrength—andtheytouchedherfancy.Toil,nowthatshewasfreeofit,seemedevenamoredesolatethingthanwhenshewaspartofit.Shesawitthroughamistoffancy—apale,sombrehalf-light,whichwastheessenceofpoeticfeeling.Heroldfather,inhisflour-dustedmiller’ssuit,sometimesreturnedtoherinmemory,revivedbyafaceinawindow.

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