Хвилі

           Iwreakmyspiteuponitsimage.Youaredeadnow,Isay,schoolday,hatedday.TheyhavemadeallthedaysofJune--thisisthetwenty-fifth--shinyandorderly,withgongs,withlessons,withorderstowash,tochange,towork,toeat.WelistentomissionariesfromChina.Wedriveoffinbrakesalongtheasphaltpavement,toattendconcertsinhalls.Weareshowngalleriesandpictures.

           ’Athomethehaywavesoverthemeadows.Myfatherleansuponthestile,smoking.Inthehouseonedoorbangsandthenanother,asthesummerairpuffsalongtheemptypassages.Someoldpictureperhapsswingsonthewall.Apetaldropsfromtheroseinthejar.Thefarmwagonsstrewthehedgeswithtuftsofhay.AllthisIsee,Ialwayssee,asIpassthelooking-glassonthelanding,withJinnyinfrontandRhodalaggingbehind.Jinnydances.Jinnyalwaysdancesinthehallontheugly,theencaustictiles;sheturnscartwheelsintheplayground;shepickssomeflowerforbiddenly,andsticksitbehindherearsothatMissPerry’sdarkeyessmoulderwithadmiration,forJinny,notme.MissPerrylovesJinny;andIcouldhavelovedher,butnowlovenoone,exceptmyfather,mydovesandthesquirrelwhomIleftinthecageathomefortheboytolookafter.’

           ’Ihatethesmalllooking-glassonthestairs,’saidJinny.’Itshowsourheadsonly;itcutsoffourheads.Andmylipsaretoowide,andmyeyesaretooclosetogether;IshowmygumstoomuchwhenIlaugh.