Сестра Керри

Chapter XLVII. The Way Of The Beaten: A Harp In The Wind

           “That’sright,eat.Nobodyelsewantsany.”

           Thenhisvoicedroppedevenlower,andhismindhalflostthefancyithad.

           “It’smightycold,”hesaid.“Awfulcold.”

           AtBroadwayandThirty-ninthStreetwasblazing,inincandescentfire,Carrie’sname.“CarrieMadenda,”itread,“andtheCasinoCompany.”Allthewet,snowysidewalkwasbrightwiththisradiatedfire.ItwassobrightthatitattractedHurstwood’sgaze.Helookedup,andthenatalarge,gilt-framedposterboard,onwhichwasafinelithographofCarrie,lifesize.

           Hurstwoodgazedatitamoment,snufflingandhunchingoneshoulder,asifsomethingwerescratchinghim.Hewassorundown,however,thathismindwasnotexactlyclear.

           Heapproachedthatentranceandwentin.

           “Well?”saidtheattendant,staringathim.Seeinghimpause,hewentoverandshovedhim.“Getoutofhere,”hesaid.

           “IwanttoseeMissMadenda,”hesaid.

           “Youdo,eh?”theothersaid,almosttickledatthespectacle.“Getoutofhere,”andheshovedhimagain.Hurstwoodhadnostrengthtoresist.

           “IwanttoseeMissMadenda,”hetriedtoexplain,evenashewasbeinghustledaway.“I’mallright.I——”

           Themangavehimalastpushandclosedthedoor.Ashedidso,Hurstwoodslippedandfellinthesnow.Ithurthim,andsomevaguesenseofshamereturned.Hebegantocryandswearfoolishly.

           “Goddamneddog!”hesaid.“Damnedoldcur,”wipingtheslushfromhisworthlesscoat.“I—Ihiredsuchpeopleasyouonce.

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