Ярмарок марнославства

Crawley of Queen’s Crawley

           "Ishouldn’tliketosleepinthisyeerbedwithoutagoodconscience,Miss,"saidtheoldwoman."There’sroomforusandahalf-dozenofghostsinit,"saysRebecca."TellmeallaboutLadyCrawleyandSirPittCrawley,andeverybody,myDEARMrs.Tinker."

           ButoldTinkerwasnottobepumpedbythislittlecross-questioner;andsignifyingtoherthatbedwasaplaceforsleeping,notconversation,setupinhercornerofthebedsuchasnoreasonlythenoseofinnocencecanproduce.Rebeccalayawakeforalong,longtime,thinkingofthemorrow,andofthenewworldintowhichshewasgoing,andofherchancesofsuccessthere.Therushlightflickeredinthebasin.Themantelpiececastupagreatblackshadow,overhalfofamouldyoldsampler,whichherdefunctladyshiphadworked,nodoubt,andovertwolittlefamilypicturesofyounglads,oneinacollegegown,andtheotherinaredjacketlikeasoldier.Whenshewenttosleep,Rebeccachosethatonetodreamabout.

           Atfouro’clock,onsucharoseatesummer’smorningasevenmadeGreatGauntStreetlookcheerful,thefaithfulTinker,havingwakenedherbedfellow,andbidherpreparefordeparture,unbarredandunboltedthegreathalldoor(theclangingandclappingwhereofstartledthesleepingechoesinthestreet),andtakingherwayintoOxfordStreet,summonedacoachfromastandthere.

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