Дублінці
The Dead
AvagueterrorseizedGabrielatthisanswer,asif,atthathourwhenhehadhopedtotriumph,someimpalpableandvindictivebeingwascomingagainsthim,gatheringforcesagainsthiminitsvagueworld.Butheshookhimselffreeofitwithaneffortofreasonandcontinuedtocaressherhand.Hedidnotquestionheragain,forhefeltthatshewouldtellhimofherself.Herhandwaswarmandmoist:itdidnotrespondtohistouch,buthecontinuedtocaressitjustashehadcaressedherfirstlettertohimthatspringmorning.
“Itwasinthewinter,”shesaid,“aboutthebeginningofthewinterwhenIwasgoingtoleavemygrandmother’sandcomeupheretotheconvent.AndhewasillatthetimeinhislodgingsinGalwayandwouldn’tbeletout,andhispeopleinOughterardwerewrittento.Hewasindecline,theysaid,orsomethinglikethat.Ineverknewrightly.”
Shepausedforamomentandsighed.
“Poorfellow,”shesaid.“Hewasveryfondofmeandhewassuchagentleboy.Weusedtogoouttogether,walking,youknow,Gabriel,likethewaytheydointhecountry.Hewasgoingtostudysingingonlyforhishealth.Hehadaverygoodvoice,poorMichaelFurey.”
“Well;andthen?”askedGabriel.
