Сестра Керри

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

           Herhusbandstudiedher,forbeauty,evencold,isfascinatingfromonepointofview.

           “Well,wewon’thavemuchmoreofthisweather,”hesaid.“ItonlytakestwoweekstogettoRome.”

           Mrs.Hurstwoodnestledcomfortablyinhercornerandsmiled.Itwassonicetobethemother-in-lawofarichyoungman—onewhosefinancialstatehadborneherpersonalinspection.

           “Doyousupposetheboatwillsailpromptly?”askedJessica,“ifitkeepsuplikethis?”

           “Oh,yes,”answeredherhusband.“Thiswon’tmakeanydifference.”

           Passingdowntheaislecameaveryfair-hairedbanker’sson,alsoofChicago,whohadlongeyedthissuperciliousbeauty.Evennowhedidnothesitatetoglanceather,andshewasconsciousofit.Withaspeciallyconjuredshowofindifference,sheturnedherprettyfacewhollyaway.Itwasnotwifelymodestyatall.Bysomuchwasherpridesatisfied.

           AtthismomentHurstwoodstoodbeforeadirtyfourstorybuildinginasidestreetquiteneartheBowery,whoseone-timecoatofbuffhadbeenchangedbysootandrain.Hemingledwithacrowdofmen—acrowdwhichhadbeen,andwasstill,gatheringbydegrees.

           Itbeganwiththeapproachoftwoorthree,whohungabouttheclosedwoodendoorsandbeattheirfeettokeepthemwarm.Theyhadonfadedderbyhatswithdentsinthem.Theirmisfitcoatswereheavywithmeltedsnowandturnedupatthecollars.Theirtrousersweremerebags,frayedatthebottomandwobblingoverbig,soppyshoes,tornatthesidesandwornalmosttoshreds.

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