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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 12/243
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They
were
eyes
that
masked
the
soul
with
a
thousand
guises
,
and
that
sometimes
opened
,
at
rare
moments
,
and
allowed
it
to
rush
up
as
though
it
were
about
to
fare
forth
nakedly
into
the
world
on
some
wonderful
adventure
--
eyes
that
could
brood
with
the
hopeless
sombreness
of
leaden
skies
;
that
could
snap
and
crackle
points
of
fire
like
those
which
sparkle
from
a
whirling
sword
;
that
could
grow
chill
as
an
arctic
landscape
,
and
yet
again
,
that
could
warm
and
soften
and
be
all
a-dance
with
love-lights
,
intense
and
masculine
,
luring
and
compelling
,
which
at
the
same
time
fascinate
and
dominate
women
till
they
surrender
in
a
gladness
of
joy
and
of
relief
and
sacrifice
.
But
to
return
.
I
told
him
that
,
unhappily
for
the
burial
service
,
I
was
not
a
preacher
,
when
he
sharply
demanded
:
"
What
do
you
do
for
a
living
?
"
I
confess
I
had
never
had
such
a
question
asked
me
before
,
nor
had
I
ever
canvassed
it
.
I
was
quite
taken
aback
,
and
before
I
could
find
myself
had
sillily
stammered
,
"
I
--
I
am
a
gentleman
.
"
His
lip
curled
in
a
swift
sneer
.
"
I
have
worked
,
I
do
work
,
"
I
cried
impetuously
,
as
though
he
were
my
judge
and
I
required
vindication
,
and
at
the
same
time
very
much
aware
of
my
arrant
idiocy
in
discussing
the
subject
at
all
.
"
For
your
living
?
"
There
was
something
so
imperative
and
masterful
about
him
that
I
was
quite
beside
myself
--
"
rattled
,
"
as
Furuseth
would
have
termed
it
,
like
a
quaking
child
before
a
stern
school-master
.
"
Who
feeds
you
?
"
was
his
next
question
.
"
I
have
an
income
,
"
I
answered
stoutly
,
and
could
have
bitten
my
tongue
the
next
instant
.
"
All
of
which
,
you
will
pardon
my
observing
,
has
nothing
whatsoever
to
do
with
what
I
wish
to
see
you
about
.
"
