Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XXXIX

           Beforeareplywaspossibletherewasaconvulsivestirbeneaththepinkexpanse,andsomethingthatresembledanotherpowder-puffhurleditselfatAnnawithavolleyofsoundslikethepoppingofLilliputianchampagnecorks.Mrs.Birch,flingingherselfforward,gaspedout:“Ifyou’djustgivehimacaramel...there,inthatboxonthedressing-table...it’stheonlyearthlythingtostophim...”andwhenAnnahadprofferedthissoptoherassailant,andhehadwithdrawnwithitbeneaththebedspread,hismistresssankbackwithalaugh.

           “Isn’theabeauty?ThePrincegavehimtomedownatNicetheotherday—buthe’sperfectlyawful,”sheconfessed,beamingintimatelyonhervisitor.Intheroseatepenumbraofthebed-curtainsshepresentedtoAnna’sstartledgazeanoddchromo-likeresemblancetoSophyViner,orasuggestion,rather,ofwhatSophyVinermight,withtheyearsandinspiteofthepowder-puff,become.Larger,blonder,heavier-featured,sheyethadglancesandmovementsthatdisturbinglysuggestedwhatwasfreshestandmostengaginginthegirl;andasshestretchedherbareplumparmacrossthebedsheseemedtobepullingbacktheveilfromdingydistancesoffamilyhistory.

           “Dositdown,ifthere’saplacetositon,”shecordiallyadvised;adding,asAnnatooktheedgeofachairhungwithmiscellaneousraiment:“MysingingtakessomuchtimethatIdon’tgetachancetowalkthefatoff—that’stheworstofbeinganartist.”

           Annamurmuredanassent.“Ihopeithasn’tinconveniencedyoutoseeme;ItoldMr.Birch—”

           “Mr.

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