Сестра Керри

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

           Theymadenoefforttogoin,butshiftedruefullyabout,diggingtheirhandsdeepintheirpocketsandleeringatthecrowdandtheincreasinglamps.Withtheminutes,increasedthenumber.Therewereoldmenwithgrizzledbeardsandsunkeneyes,menwhowerecomparativelyyoungbutshrunkenbydiseases,menwhoweremiddle-aged.Nonewerefat.Therewasafaceinthethickofthecollectionwhichwasaswhiteasdrainedveal.Therewasanotherredasbrick.Somecamewiththin,roundedshoulders,otherswithwoodenlegs,stillotherswithframessoleanthatclothesonlyflappedaboutthem.Thereweregreatears,swollennoses,thicklips,and,aboveall,red,blood-shoteyes.Notanormal,healthyfaceinthewholemass;notastraightfigure;notastraightforward,steadyglance.

           Inthedriveofthewindandsleettheypushedinononeanother.Therewerewrists,unprotectedbycoatorpocket,whichwereredwithcold.Therewereears,halfcoveredbyeveryconceivablesemblanceofahat,whichstilllookedstiffandbitten.Inthesnowtheyshifted,nowonefoot,nowanother,almostrockinginunison.

           Withthegrowthofthecrowdaboutthedoorcameamurmur.Itwasnotconversation,butarunningcommentdirectedatanyoneingeneral.Itcontainedoathsandslangphrases.

           “Bydamn,Iwishthey’dhurryup.”

           “Lookatthecopperwatchin’.”

           “Maybeitain’twinter,nuther!”

           “IwishtIwasinSingSing.”

           Nowasharperlashofwindcutdownandtheyhuddledcloser.Itwasanedging,shifting,pushingthrong.Therewasnoanger,nopleading,nothreateningwords.

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