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- Чарльз Диккенс
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Wistful
and
wondering
,
she
would
sit
in
summer
weather
by
the
high
fender
in
the
lodge
,
looking
up
at
the
sky
through
the
barred
window
,
until
,
when
she
turned
her
eyes
away
,
bars
of
light
would
arise
between
her
and
her
friend
,
and
she
would
see
him
through
a
grating
,
too
.
‘
Thinking
of
the
fields
,
’
the
turnkey
said
once
,
after
watching
her
,
‘
ain
’
t
you
?
’
‘
Where
are
they
?
’
she
inquired
.
‘
Why
,
they
’
re
—
over
there
,
my
dear
,
’
said
the
turnkey
,
with
a
vague
flourish
of
his
key
.
‘
Just
about
there
.
’
‘
Does
anybody
open
them
,
and
shut
them
?
Are
they
locked
?
’
The
turnkey
was
discomfited
.
‘
Well
,
’
he
said
.
‘
Not
in
general
.
’
‘
Are
they
very
pretty
,
Bob
?
’
She
called
him
Bob
,
by
his
own
particular
request
and
instruction
.
‘
Lovely
.
Full
of
flowers
.
There
’
s
buttercups
,
and
there
’
s
daisies
,
and
there
’
s
’
—
the
turnkey
hesitated
,
being
short
of
floral
nomenclature
—
‘
there
’
s
dandelions
,
and
all
manner
of
games
.
’
‘
Is
it
very
pleasant
to
be
there
,
Bob
?
’
