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- Стр. 1229/1581
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He
sighed
.
"
That
’
s
it
.
That
’
s
the
trouble
—
your
asking
all
those
why
’
s
.
Your
constant
asking
of
a
why
for
everything
.
What
I
’
m
talking
about
can
’
t
be
put
into
words
.
It
can
’
t
be
named
.
It
has
to
be
felt
.
Either
you
feel
it
or
you
don
’
t
.
It
’
s
not
a
thing
of
the
mind
,
but
of
the
heart
.
Don
’
t
you
ever
feel
?
Just
feel
,
without
asking
all
those
questions
?
Can
’
t
you
understand
me
as
a
human
being
,
not
as
if
I
were
a
scientific
object
in
a
laboratory
?
The
great
understanding
that
transcends
our
shabby
words
and
helpless
minds
.
.
.
No
,
I
guess
I
shouldn
’
t
look
for
it
.
But
I
’
ll
always
seek
and
hope
.
You
’
re
my
last
hope
.
You
’
re
all
I
have
.
"
She
stood
at
the
wall
,
without
moving
.
"
I
need
you
,
"
he
wailed
softly
.
"
I
’
m
all
alone
.
You
’
re
not
like
the
others
.
I
believe
in
you
.
I
trust
you
.
What
has
all
that
money
and
fame
and
business
and
struggle
given
me
?
You
’
re
all
I
have
.
.
.
"
She
stood
without
moving
and
the
direction
of
her
glance
,
lowered
to
look
down
at
him
,
was
the
only
form
of
recognition
she
gave
him
.
The
things
he
said
about
his
suffering
were
lies
,
she
thought
;
but
the
suffering
was
real
;
he
was
a
man
torn
by
some
continual
anguish
,
which
he
seemed
unable
to
tell
her
,
but
which
,
perhaps
,
she
could
learn
to
understand
.
She
still
owed
him
this
much
—
she
thought
,
with
the
grayness
of
a
sense
of
duty
—
in
payment
for
the
position
he
had
given
her
,
which
,
perhaps
,
was
all
he
had
to
give
,
she
owed
him
an
effort
to
understand
him
.
It
was
strange
to
feel
,
in
the
days
that
followed
,
that
she
had
become
a
stranger
to
herself
,
a
stranger
who
had
nothing
to
want
or
to
seek
.
In
place
of
a
love
made
by
the
brilliant
fire
of
hero
worship
,
she
was
left
with
the
gnawing
drabness
of
pity
.
In
place
of
the
men
she
had
struggled
to
find
,
men
who
fought
for
their
goals
and
refused
to
suffer
—
she
was
left
with
a
man
whose
suffering
was
his
only
claim
to
value
and
his
only
offer
in
exchange
for
her
life
.
But
it
made
no
difference
to
her
any
longer
.
The
one
who
was
she
,
had
looked
with
eagerness
at
the
turn
of
every
corner
ahead
;
the
passive
stranger
who
had
taken
her
place
,
was
like
all
the
over
groomed
people
around
her
,
the
people
who
said
that
they
were
adult
because
they
did
not
try
to
think
or
to
desire
.
But
the
stranger
was
still
haunted
by
a
ghost
who
was
herself
,
and
the
ghost
had
a
mission
to
accomplish
.
She
had
to
learn
to
understand
the
things
that
had
destroyed
her
.
She
had
to
know
,
and
she
lived
with
a
sense
of
ceaseless
waiting
.
She
had
to
know
,
even
though
she
felt
that
the
headlight
was
closer
and
in
the
moment
of
knowledge
she
would
be
struck
by
the
wheels
.
What
do
you
want
of
me
?
—
was
the
question
that
kept
beating
in
her
mind
as
a
clue
.
What
do
you
want
of
me
?
—
she
kept
crying
soundlessly
,
at
dinner
tables
,
in
drawing
rooms
,
on
sleepless
nights
—
crying
it
to
Jim
and
those
who
seemed
to
share
his
secret
,
to
Balph
Eubank
,
to
Dr
.
Simon
Pritchett
—
what
do
you
want
of
me
?
She
did
not
ask
it
aloud
;
she
knew
that
they
would
not
answer
.
