Біла пташка
Her Marriage, Her Clothes, Her Appetite, and an Inventory of Her Furniture
“Butthisgreenfloor,sobeautifullystained—”
“Boilingoil,”saidshe,withaflushofhonestshame,“andashillingswortho’paint.”
“Thoserugs—”
“Remnants,”shesighed,andshowedmehowartfullytheyhadbeenpiecedtogether.
“Thecurtains—”
“Remnants.”
“Atalleventsthesofa—”
Sheraiseditsdrapery,andIsawthatthesofawasbuiltofpackingcases.
“Thedesk—”
IreallythoughtthatIwassafethistime,forcouldInotseethedrawerswiththeirbrasshandles,thecharmingshelfforbooks,thepigeon-holeswiththeircoveringsofsilk?
“Shemadeitoutofthreeorangeboxes,”saidthelady,atlastalittleawedherself.
Ilookedaroundmedespairingly,andmyeyealightedonthehollandcovering.“Thereisafinechandelierinthathollandbag,”Isaidcoaxingly.
Shesniffedandwasraisinganuntenderhand,whenIcheckedher.“Forbear,ma’am,”Icriedwithauthority,“Iprefertobelieveinthatbag.Howmuchtobepitied,ma’am,arethosewhohavelostfaithineverything.”Ithinkalltheprettythingsthatthelittlenurserygovernesshadmadeoutofnothingsqueezedmyhandforlettingthechandelieroff.
“But,goodGod,ma’am,”saidItomadam,“whatanexposure.”
Sheintimatedthattherewereotherexposuresupstairs.
“Sothereisastair,”saidI,andthen,suspiciously,“didshemakeit?”
No,buthowshehadalteredit.
ThestairledtoMary’sbedroom,andIsaidIwouldnotlookatthat,noratthestudio,whichwasashedinthegarden.
