Сестра Керри

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

           

           NowafiercefeelingagainstCarriewelledup—justonefierce,angrythoughtbeforethewholethingslippedoutofhismind.

           “Sheowesmesomethingtoeat,”hesaid.“Sheowesittome.”

           HopelesslyheturnedbackintoBroadwayagainandsloppedonwardandaway,begging,crying,losingtrackofhisthoughts,oneafteranother,asaminddecayedanddisjointediswonttodo.

           Itwastrulyawintryevening,afewdayslater,whenhisonedistinctmentaldecisionwasreached.Already,atfouro’clock,thesombrehueofnightwasthickeningtheair.Aheavysnowwasfalling—afinepicking,whippingsnow,borneforwardbyaswiftwindinlong,thinlines.Thestreetswerebeddedwithit—sixinchesofcold,softcarpet,churnedtoadirtybrownbythecrushofteamsandthefeetofmen.AlongBroadwaymenpickedtheirwayinulstersandumbrellas.AlongtheBowery,menslouchedthroughitwithcollarsandhatspulledovertheirears.Intheformerthoroughfarebusinessmenandtravellersweremakingforcomfortablehotels.Inthelatter,crowdsoncolderrandsshiftedpastdingystores,inthedeeprecessesofwhichlightswerealreadygleaming.Therewereearlylightsinthecablecars,whoseusualclatterwasreducedbythemantleaboutthewheels.Thewholecitywasmuffledbythisfast-thickeningmantle.

           InhercomfortablechambersattheWaldorf,Carriewasreadingatthistime“PèreGoriot,”whichAmeshadrecommendedtoher.Itwassostrong,andAmes’smererecommendationhadsoarousedherinterest,thatshecaughtnearlythefullsympatheticsignificanceofit.

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