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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Лавка древностей
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- Стр. 187/459
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The
first
impulse
of
the
child
was
to
fly
from
the
terror
of
being
by
herself
in
that
room
—
to
have
somebody
by
—
not
to
be
alone
—
and
then
her
power
of
speech
would
be
restored
.
With
no
consciousness
of
having
moved
,
she
gained
the
door
.
There
was
the
dreadful
shadow
,
pausing
at
the
bottom
of
the
steps
.
She
could
not
pass
it
;
she
might
have
done
so
,
perhaps
,
in
the
darkness
without
being
seized
,
but
her
blood
curdled
at
the
thought
.
The
figure
stood
quite
still
,
and
so
did
she
;
not
boldly
,
but
of
necessity
;
for
going
back
into
the
room
was
hardly
less
terrible
than
going
on
.
The
rain
beat
fast
and
furiously
without
,
and
ran
down
in
plashing
streams
from
the
thatched
roof
.
Some
summer
insect
,
with
no
escape
into
the
air
,
flew
blindly
to
and
fro
,
beating
its
body
against
the
walls
and
ceiling
,
and
filling
the
silent
place
with
murmurs
.
The
figure
moved
again
.
The
child
involuntarily
did
the
same
.
Once
in
her
grandfather
’
s
room
,
she
would
be
safe
.
It
crept
along
the
passage
until
it
came
to
the
very
door
she
longed
so
ardently
to
reach
.
The
child
,
in
the
agony
of
being
so
near
,
had
almost
darted
forward
with
the
design
of
bursting
into
the
room
and
closing
it
behind
her
,
when
the
figure
stopped
again
.
The
idea
flashed
suddenly
upon
her
—
what
if
it
entered
there
,
and
had
a
design
upon
the
old
man
’
s
life
!
She
turned
faint
and
sick
.
It
did
.
It
went
in
.
There
was
a
light
inside
.
The
figure
was
now
within
the
chamber
,
and
she
,
still
dumb
—
quite
dumb
,
and
almost
senseless
—
stood
looking
on
.
The
door
was
partly
open
Not
knowing
what
she
meant
to
do
,
but
meaning
to
preserve
him
or
be
killed
herself
,
she
staggered
forward
and
looked
in
.
What
sight
was
that
which
met
her
view
!
The
bed
had
not
been
lain
on
,
but
was
smooth
and
empty
.
And
at
a
table
sat
the
old
man
himself
;
the
only
living
creature
there
;
his
white
face
pinched
and
sharpened
by
the
greediness
which
made
his
eyes
unnaturally
bright
—
counting
the
money
of
which
his
hands
had
robbed
her
.
With
steps
more
faltering
and
unsteady
than
those
with
which
she
had
approached
the
room
,
the
child
withdrew
from
the
door
,
and
groped
her
way
back
to
her
own
chamber
.
The
terror
she
had
lately
felt
was
nothing
compared
with
that
which
now
oppressed
her
.
No
strange
robber
,
no
treacherous
host
conniving
at
the
plunder
of
his
guests
,
or
stealing
to
their
beds
to
kill
them
in
their
sleep
,
no
nightly
prowler
,
however
terrible
and
cruel
,
could
have
awakened
in
her
bosom
half
the
dread
which
the
recognition
of
her
silent
visitor
inspired
.
The
grey
-
headed
old
man
gliding
like
a
ghost
into
her
room
and
acting
the
thief
while
he
supposed
her
fast
asleep
,
then
bearing
off
his
prize
and
hanging
over
it
with
the
ghastly
exultation
she
had
witnessed
,
was
worse
—
immeasurably
worse
,
and
far
more
dreadful
,
for
the
moment
,
to
reflect
upon
—
than
anything
her
wildest
fancy
could
have
suggested
.
If
he
should
return
—
there
was
no
lock
or
bolt
upon
the
door
,
and
if
,
distrustful
of
having
left
some
money
yet
behind
,
he
should
come
back
to
seek
for
more
—
a
vague
awe
and
horror
surrounded
the
idea
of
his
slinking
in
again
with
stealthy
tread
,
and
turning
his
face
toward
the
empty
bed
,
while
she
shrank
down
close
at
his
feet
to
avoid
his
touch
,
which
was
almost
insupportable
.
She
sat
and
listened
.
Hark
!
A
footstep
on
the
stairs
,
and
now
the
door
was
slowly
opening
.
It
was
but
imagination
,
yet
imagination
had
all
the
terrors
of
reality
;
nay
,
it
was
worse
,
for
the
reality
would
have
come
and
gone
,
and
there
an
end
,
but
in
imagination
it
was
always
coming
,
and
never
went
away
.
