Літо

           OnthenightofhermeetingwithMissHatchard’scousinCharitylayinbed,herbarearmsclaspedunderherroughhead,andcontinuedtothinkofhim.ShesupposedthathemeanttospendsometimeinNorthDormer.Hehadsaidhewaslookinguptheoldhousesintheneighbourhood;andthoughshewasnotveryclearastohispurpose,orastowhyanyoneshouldlookforoldhouses,whentheylayinwaitforoneoneveryroadside,sheunderstoodthatheneededthehelpofbooks,andresolvedtohuntupthenextdaythevolumeshehadfailedtofind,andanyothersthatseemedrelatedtothesubject.

           Neverhadherignoranceoflifeandliteraturesoweighedonherasinrelivingtheshortsceneofherdiscomfiture.“It’snousetryingtobeanythinginthisplace,”shemutteredtoherpillow;andsheshrivelledatthevisionofvaguemetropolises,shiningsuper-Nettletons,wheregirlsinbetterclothesthanBelleBalch’stalkedfluentlyofarchitecturetoyoungmenwithhandslikeLuciusHarney’s.Thensherememberedhissuddenpausewhenhehadcomeclosetothedeskandhadhisfirstlookather.Thesighthadmadehimforgetwhathewasgoingtosay;sherecalledthechangeinhisface,andjumpingupsheranoverthebareboardstoherwashstand,foundthematches,litacandle,andliftedittothesquareoflooking-glassonthewhite-washedwall.Hersmallface,usuallysodarklypale,glowedlikearoseinthefaintorboflight,andunderherrumpledhairhereyesseemeddeeperandlargerthanbyday.Perhapsafterallitwasamistaketowishtheywereblue.