Спогади Шерлока Холмса
The Yellow Face
Mylipswerepartedtomurmuroutsomesleepywordsofsurpriseorremonstranceatthisuntimelypreparation,whensuddenlymyhalf-openedeyesfelluponherface,illuminatedbythecandle-light,andastonishmentheldmedumb.SheworeanexpressionsuchasIhadneverseenbefore—suchasIshouldhavethoughtherincapableofassuming.Shewasdeadlypaleandbreathingfast,glancingfurtivelytowardsthebedasshefastenedhermantletoseeifshehaddisturbedme.ThenthinkingthatIwasstillasleep,sheslippednoiselesslyfromtheroom,andaninstantlaterIheardasharpcreakingwhichcouldonlycomefromthehingesofthefrontdoor.IsatupinbedandrappedmyknucklesagainsttherailtomakecertainthatIwastrulyawake.ThenItookmywatchfromunderthepillow.Itwasthreeinthemorning.Whatonthisearthcouldmywifebedoingoutonthecountryroadatthreeinthemorning?
"Ihadsatforabouttwentyminutesturningthethingoverinmymindandtryingtofindsomepossibleexplanation.ThemoreIthought,themoreextraordinaryandinexplicablediditappear.IwasstillpuzzlingoveritwhenIheardthedoorgentlycloseagain,andherfootstepscomingupthestairs.
"‘Whereintheworldhaveyoubeen,Effie?"Iaskedassheentered.
"ShegaveaviolentstartandakindofgaspingcrywhenIspoke,andthatcryandstarttroubledmemorethanalltherest,fortherewassomethingindescribablyguiltyaboutthem.
