Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XIX

           Murrettisenough!Idon’tsupposeyoupretendtoconcealthat?Andheavenknowswhatotherunspeakablepeopleshe’sbeenmixedupwith.TheonlyfriendsshecanproducearecalledHoke....Don’ttrytoreasonwithme,Mr.Darrow.Therearefeelingsthatgodeeperthanfacts....AndIknowshethoughtofstudyingforthestage...”MadamedeChantelleraisedthecornerofherlacehandkerchieftohereyes.“I’mold-fashioned—likemyfurniture,”shemurmured.“AndIthoughtIcouldcountonyou,Mr.Darrow...”

           WhenDarrow,thatnight,regainedhisroom,hereflectedwithaflashofironythateachtimeheenteredithebroughtafreshtroopofperplexitiestotroubleitssereneseclusion.Sincethedayafterhisarrival,onlyforty-eighthoursbefore,whenhehadsethiswindowopentothenight,andhishopeshadseemedasmanyasitsstars,eacheveninghadbroughtitsnewproblemanditsreneweddistress.Butnothing,asyet,hadapproachedtheblankmiseryofmindwithwhichhenowsethimselftofacethefreshquestionsconfrontinghim.

           SophyVinerhadnotshownherselfatdinner,sothathehadhadnoglimpseofherinhernewcharacter,andnomeansofdiviningtherealnatureofthetiebetweenherselfandOwenLeath.Onething,however,wasclear:whateverherrealfeelingswere,andhowevermuchorlittleshehadatstake,ifshehadmadeuphermindtomarryOwenshehadmorethanenoughskillandtenacitytodefeatanyartsthatpoorMadamedeChantellecouldopposetoher.

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