Сестра Керри

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

           Atlastthebarsgratedinsideandthecrowdprickedupitsears.Footstepsshuffledwithinanditmurmuredagain.Someonecalled:“Slowupthere,now,”andthenthedooropened.Itwaspushandjamforaminute,withgrim,beastsilencetoproveitsquality,andthenitmeltedinward,likelogsfloating,anddisappeared.Therewerewethatsandwetshoulders,acold,shrunken,disgruntledmass,pouringinbetweenbleakwalls.Itwasjustsixo’clockandtherewassupperineveryhurryingpedestrian’sface.Andyetnosupperwasprovidedhere—nothingbutbeds.

           Hurstwoodlaiddownhisfifteencentsandcreptoffwithwearystepstohisallottedroom.Itwasadingyaffair—wooden,dusty,hard.Asmallgas-jetfurnishedsufficientlightforsoruefulacorner.

           “Hm!”hesaid,clearinghisthroatandlockingthedoor.

           Nowhebeganleisurelytotakeoffhisclothes,butstoppedfirstwithhiscoat,andtuckeditalongthecrackunderthedoor.Hisvesthearrangedinthesameplace.Hisoldwet,crackedhathelaidsoftlyuponthetable.Thenhepulledoffhisshoesandlaydown.

           Itseemedasifhethoughtawhile,fornowhearoseandturnedthegasout,standingcalmlyintheblackness,hiddenfromview.Afterafewmoments,inwhichhereviewednothing,butmerelyhesitated,heturnedthegasonagain,butappliednomatch.Eventhenhestoodthere,hiddenwhollyinthatkindnesswhichisnight,whiletheuprisingfumesfilledtheroom.Whentheodourreachedhisnostrils,hequithisattitudeandfumbledforthebed.“What’stheuse?”hesaid,weakly,ashestretchedhimselftorest.

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