Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           Hislong,blackhair,suchasoneseesinthesaintsandevangelistsofthepre-Raphaeliteartists,hungoverhisears.Presleyagainremarkedhispointedbeard,blackandfine,growingfromthehollowcheeks.Helookedathisface,afacelikethatofayoungseer,likeahalf-inspiredshepherdoftheHebraiclegends,adwellerinthewilderness,giftedwithstrangepowers.HewasdressedaswhenPresleyhadfirstmethim,herdinghissheep,inbrowncanvasoveralls,thrustintotopboots;greyflannelshirt,openatthethroat,showingthebreastruddywithtan;thewaistencircledwithacartridgebelt,emptyofcartridges.

           Butnow,asPresleytookmorecarefulnoteofhim,hewassurprisedtoobserveacertainnewlookinVanamee’sdeep-seteyes.HerememberednowthatallthroughthemorningVanameehadbeensingularlyreserved.Hewascontinuallydriftingintoreveries,abstracted,distrait.Indubitably,somethingofmomenthadhappened.

           AtlengthVanameespoke.Leaningbackinhischair,histhumbsinhisbelt,hisbeardedchinuponhisbreast,hisvoicewastheevenmonotoneofonespeakinginhissleep.

           HetoldPresleyinafewwordswhathadhappenedduringthefirstnighthehadspentinthegardenoftheoldMission,oftheAnswer,half-fancied,half-real,thathadcometohim.

           “TonootherpersonbutyouwouldIspeakofthis,”hesaid,“butyou,Ithink,willunderstand—willbesympathetic,atleast,andIfeeltheneedofunburdeningmyselfofittosomeone.AtfirstIwouldnottrustmyownsenses.IwassureIhaddeceivedmyself,butonasecondnightithappenedagain.