Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XV

           IknowpeopleinthatlineinLondon—I’mcertainIcanmanageitforyouwhenIgetback——”

           Shemoveduptothetableandleanedoverittoask,inavoicethatwashardlyaboveawhisper:“Thenyoudowantmetoleave?Isthatit?”

           Hedroppedhisarmswithagroan.“Goodheavens!Howcanyouthinksuchthings?Atthetime,youknow,IbeggedyoutoletmedowhatIcould,butyouwouldn’thearofit...andeversinceI’vebeenwantingtobeofuse—todosomething,anything,tohelpyou...”

           Sheheardhimthrough,motionless,withoutaquiveroftheclaspedhandssherestedontheedgeofthetable.

           “Ifyouwanttohelpme,then—youcanhelpmetostayhere,”shebroughtoutwithlow-tonedintensity.

           Throughthestillnessofthepausewhichfollowed,thebrayofamotor-hornsoundedfardownthedrive.Instantlysheturned,withalastwhitelookathim,andfledfromtheroomandupthestairs.Hestoodmotionless,benumbedbytheshockofherlastwords.Shewasafraid,then—afraidofhim—sickwithfearofhim!Thediscoverybeathimdowntoalowerdepth...

           Themotor-hornsoundedagain,closeathand,andheturnedandwentuptohisroom.Hisletter-writingwasasufficientpretextfornotimmediatelyjoiningthepartyaboutthetea-table,andhewantedtobealoneandtrytoputalittleorderintohistumultuousthinking.

           Upstairs,theroomheldouttheintimatewelcomeofitslampandfire.Everythinginitexhaledthesamesenseofpeaceandstabilitywhich,twoeveningsbefore,hadlulledhimtocomplacentmeditation.

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