Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

I

           Shehadtalkedtohim,shylyyetfrankly,ofwhathadhappenedtoherduringtheyearswhentheyhadsostrangelyfailedtomeet.ShehadtoldhimofhermarriagetoFraserLeath,andofhersubsequentlifeinFrance,whereherhusband’smother,leftawidowinhisyouth,hadbeenre-marriedtotheMarquisdeChantelle,andwhere,partlyinconsequenceofthissecondunion,thesonhadpermanentlysettledhimself.Shehadspokenalso,withanintenseeagernessofaffection,ofherlittlegirlEffie,whowasnownineyearsold,and,inastrainhardlylesstender,ofOwenLeath,thecharmingcleveryoungstepsonwhomherhusband’sdeathhadlefttohercare...

           Aporter,stumblingagainstDarrow’sbags,rousedhimtothefactthathestillobstructedtheplatform,inertandencumberingashisluggage.

           “Crossing,sir?”

           Washecrossing?Hereallydidn’tknow;butforlackofanymorecompellingimpulsehefollowedtheportertotheluggagevan,singledouthisproperty,andturnedtomarchbehinditdownthegang-way.Asthefiercewindshoulderedhim,buildingupacrystalwallagainsthisefforts,hefeltanewthederisionofhiscase.

           “Nastyweathertocross,sir,”theporterthrewbackathimastheybeattheirwaydownthenarrowwalktothepier.Nastyweather,indeed;butluckily,asithadturnedout,therewasnoearthlyreasonwhyDarrowshouldcross.

           Whilehepushedoninthewakeofhisluggagehisthoughtsslippedbackintotheoldgroove.

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