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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Оливер Твист
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- Стр. 242/420
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Spring
flew
swiftly
by
,
and
summer
came
.
If
the
village
had
been
beautiful
at
first
it
was
now
in
the
full
glow
and
luxuriance
of
its
richness
.
The
great
trees
,
which
had
looked
shrunken
and
bare
in
the
earlier
months
,
had
now
burst
into
strong
life
and
health
;
and
stretching
forth
their
green
arms
over
the
thirsty
ground
,
converted
open
and
naked
spots
into
choice
nooks
,
where
was
a
deep
and
pleasant
shade
from
which
to
look
upon
the
wide
prospect
,
steeped
in
sunshine
,
which
lay
stretched
beyond
.
The
earth
had
donned
her
mantle
of
brightest
green
;
and
shed
her
richest
perfumes
abroad
.
It
was
the
prime
and
vigour
of
the
year
;
all
things
were
glad
and
flourishing
.
Still
,
the
same
quiet
life
went
on
at
the
little
cottage
,
and
the
same
cheerful
serenity
prevailed
among
its
inmates
.
Oliver
had
long
since
grown
stout
and
healthy
;
but
health
or
sickness
made
no
difference
in
his
warm
feelings
of
a
great
many
people
.
He
was
still
the
same
gentle
,
attached
,
affectionate
creature
that
he
had
been
when
pain
and
suffering
had
wasted
his
strength
,
and
when
he
was
dependent
for
every
slight
attention
,
and
comfort
on
those
who
tended
him
.
One
beautiful
night
,
when
they
had
taken
a
longer
walk
than
was
customary
with
them
:
for
the
day
had
been
unusually
warm
,
and
there
was
a
brilliant
moon
,
and
a
light
wind
had
sprung
up
,
which
was
unusually
refreshing
.
Rose
had
been
in
high
spirits
,
too
,
and
they
had
walked
on
,
in
merry
conversation
,
until
they
had
far
exceeded
their
ordinary
bounds
.
Mrs.
Maylie
being
fatigued
,
they
returned
more
slowly
home
.
The
young
lady
merely
throwing
off
her
simple
bonnet
,
sat
down
to
the
piano
as
usual
.
After
running
abstractedly
over
the
keys
for
a
few
minutes
,
she
fell
into
a
low
and
very
solemn
air
;
and
as
she
played
it
,
they
heard
a
sound
as
if
she
were
weeping
.
'
Rose
,
my
dear
!
'
said
the
elder
lady
.
Rose
made
no
reply
,
but
played
a
little
quicker
,
as
though
the
words
had
roused
her
from
some
painful
thoughts
.
'
Rose
,
my
love
!
'
cried
Mrs.
Maylie
,
rising
hastily
,
and
bending
over
her
.
'
What
is
this
?
In
tears
!
My
dear
child
,
what
distresses
you
?
'
'
Nothing
,
aunt
;
nothing
,
'
replied
the
young
lady
.
'
I
do
n't
know
what
it
is
;
I
ca
n't
describe
it
;
but
I
feel
--
'
'
Not
ill
,
my
love
?
'
interposed
Mrs.
Maylie
.
'
No
,
no
!
Oh
,
not
ill
!
'
replied
Rose
:
shuddering
as
though
some
deadly
chillness
were
passing
over
her
,
while
she
spoke
;
'
I
shall
be
better
presently
.
Close
the
window
,
pray
!
'
