Дублінці
Eveline
HehadsailedthroughtheStraitsofMagellanandhetoldherstoriesoftheterriblePatagonians.HehadfallenonhisfeetinBuenosAyres,hesaid,andhadcomeovertotheoldcountryjustforaholiday.Ofcourse,herfatherhadfoundouttheaffairandhadforbiddenhertohaveanythingtosaytohim.
“Iknowthesesailorchaps,”hesaid.
OnedayhehadquarrelledwithFrankandafterthatshehadtomeetherloversecretly.
Theeveningdeepenedintheavenue.Thewhiteoftwolettersinherlapgrewindistinct.OnewastoHarry;theotherwastoherfather.ErnesthadbeenherfavouritebutshelikedHarrytoo.Herfatherwasbecomingoldlately,shenoticed;hewouldmissher.Sometimeshecouldbeverynice.Notlongbefore,whenshehadbeenlaidupforaday,hehadreadheroutaghoststoryandmadetoastforheratthefire.Anotherday,whentheirmotherwasalive,theyhadallgoneforapicnictotheHillofHowth.Sherememberedherfatherputtingonhermothersbonnettomakethechildrenlaugh.
Hertimewasrunningoutbutshecontinuedtositbythewindow,leaningherheadagainstthewindowcurtain,inhalingtheodourofdustycretonne.Downfarintheavenueshecouldhearastreetorganplaying.SheknewtheairStrangethatitshouldcomethatverynighttoremindherofthepromisetohermother,herpromisetokeepthehometogetheraslongasshecould.
