Сестра Керрі

Chapter XLVII. The Way Of The Beaten: A Harp In The Wind

           AteveninghefoundhimselfattheBoulevardandSixty-seventhStreet,wherehefinallyturnedhisfaceBowery-ward.Especiallyfatiguedbecauseofthewanderingpropensitywhichhadseizedhiminthemorning,henowhalfdraggedhiswetfeet,shufflingthesolesuponthesidewalk.Anold,thincoatwasturnedupabouthisredears—hiscrackedderbyhatwaspulleddownuntilitturnedthemoutward.Hishandswereinhispockets.

           “I’lljustgodownBroadway,”hesaidtohimself.

           WhenhereachedForty-secondStreet,thefiresignswerealreadyblazingbrightly.Crowdswerehasteningtodine.Throughbrightwindows,ateverycorner,mightbeseengaycompaniesinluxuriantrestaurants.Therewerecoachesandcrowdedcablecars.

           Inhiswearyandhungrystate,heshouldneverhavecomehere.Thecontrastwastoosharp.Evenhewasrecalledkeenlytobetterthings.“What’stheuse?”hethought.“It’sallupwithme.I’llquitthis.”

           Peopleturnedtolookafterhim,souncouthwashisshamblingfigure.Severalofficersfollowedhimwiththeireyes,toseethathedidnotbegofanybody.

           Oncehepausedinanaimless,incoherentsortofwayandlookedthroughthewindowsofanimposingrestaurant,beforewhichblazedafiresign,andthroughthelarge,platewindowsofwhichcouldbeseentheredandgolddecorations,thepalms,thewhitenapery,andshiningglassware,and,aboveall,thecomfortablecrowd.Weakashismindhadbecome,hishungerwassharpenoughtoshowtheimportanceofthis.Hestoppedstockstill,hisfrayedtrouserssoakingintheslush,andpeeredfoolishlyin.

           “Eat,”hemumbled.

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