Випадок Чарльза Декстера Варда

           HishomewasagreatGeorgianmansionatopthewell-nighprecipitoushillthatrisesjusteastoftheriver;andfromtherearwindowsofitsramblingwingshecouldlookdizzilyoutoveralltheclusteredspires,domes,roofs,andskyscrapersummitsofthelowertowntothepurplehillsofthecountrysidebeyond.Herehewasborn,andfromthelovelyclassicporchofthedouble-bayedbrickfacadehisnursehadfirstwheeledhiminhiscarriage;pastthelittlewhitefarmhouseoftwohundredyearsbeforethatthetownhadlongagoovertaken,andontowardthestatelycollegesalongtheshady,sumptuousstreet,whoseoldsquarebrickmansionsandsmallerwoodenhouseswithnarrow,heavy-columnedDoricporchesdreamedsolidandexclusiveamidsttheirgenerousyardsandgardens.

           Hehadbeenwheeled,too,alongsleepyCongdonStreet,onetierlowerdownonthesteephill,andwithallitseasternhomesonhighterraces.Thesmallwoodenhousesaveragedagreateragehere,foritwasupthishillthatthegrowingtownhadclimbed;andintheserideshehadimbibedsomethingofthecolorofaquaintcolonialvillage.ThenurseusedtostopandsitonthebenchesofProspectTerracetochatwithpolicemen;andoneofthechild’sfirstmemorieswasofthegreatwestwardseaofhazyroofsanddomesandsteeplesandfarhillswhichhesawonewinterafternoonfromthatgreatrailedembankment,andvioletandmysticagainstafevered,apocalypticsunsetofredsandgoldsandpurplesandcuriousgreens.