Хвилі

           Nowsheseesus,andmoves,andalltheraysrippleandflowandwaveroverus,bringinginnewtidesofsensation.Wechange.Louisputshishandtohistie.Neville,whositswaitingwithagonizedintensity,nervouslystraightenstheforksinfrontofhim.Rhodaseesherwithsurprise,asifonsomefarhorizonafireblazed.AndI,thoughIpilemymindwithdampgrass,withwetfields,withthesoundofrainontheroofandthegustsofwindthatbatteratthehouseinwinterandsoprotectmysoulagainsther,feelherderisionstealroundme,feelherlaughtercurlitstonguesoffireroundmeandlightupunsparinglymyshabbydress,mysquare-tippedfinger-nails,whichIatoncehideunderthetable-cloth.’

           ’Hehasnotcome,’saidNeville.Thedooropensandhedoesnotcome.ThatisBernard.Ashepullsoffhiscoatheshows,ofcourse,theblueshirtunderhisarm-pits.Andthen,unliketherestofus,hecomesinwithoutpushingopenadoor,withoutknowingthathecomesintoaroomfullofstrangers.Hedoesnotlookintheglass.Hishairisuntidy,buthedoesnotknowit.Hehasnoperceptionthatwediffer,orthatthistableishisgoal.Hehesitatesonhiswayhere.Whoisthat?heaskshimself,ashehalfknowsawomaninanoperacloak.Hehalfknowseverybody;heknowsnobody(IcomparehimwithPercival).