Сестра Керри

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

           Itwasallsullenendurance,unlightenedbyeitherwitorgoodfellowship.

           Acarriagewentjinglingbywithsomerecliningfigureinit.Oneofthemennearestthedoorsawit.

           “Lookattheblokeridin’.”

           “Heain’tsocold.”

           “Eh,eh,eh!”yelledanother,thecarriagehavinglongsincepassedoutofhearing.

           Littlebylittlethenightcrepton.Alongthewalkacrowdturnedoutonitswayhome.Menandshop-girlswentbywithquicksteps.Thecross-towncarsbegantobecrowded.Thegaslampswereblazing,andeverywindowbloomedruddywithasteadyflame.Stillthecrowdhungaboutthedoor,unwavering.

           “Ain’ttheyevergoin’toopenup?”queriedahoarsevoice,suggestively.

           Thisseemedtorenewthegeneralinterestinthecloseddoor,andmanygazedinthatdirection.Theylookedatitasdumbbruteslook,asdogspawandwhineandstudytheknob.Theyshiftedandblinkedandmuttered,nowacurse,nowacomment.Stilltheywaitedandstillthesnowwhirledandcutthemwithbitingflakes.Ontheoldhatsandpeakedshouldersitwaspiling.Itgatheredinlittleheapsandcurvesandnoonebrusheditoff.Inthecentreofthecrowdthewarmthandsteammeltedit,andwatertrickledoffhatrimsanddownnoses,whichtheownerscouldnotreachtoscratch.Ontheouterrimthepilesremainedunmelted.Hurstwood,whocouldnotgetinthecentre,stoodwithheadloweredtotheweatherandbenthisform.

           Alightappearedthroughthetransomoverhead.Itsentathrillofpossibilitythroughthewatchers.Therewasamurmurofrecognition.

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