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- Авторы
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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Дублинцы
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- Стр. 182/192
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She
was
walking
on
before
him
with
Mr.
Bartell
D'Arcy
,
her
shoes
in
a
brown
parcel
tucked
under
one
arm
and
her
hands
holding
her
skirt
up
from
the
slush
.
She
had
no
longer
any
grace
of
attitude
,
but
Gabriel
's
eyes
were
still
bright
with
happiness
.
The
blood
went
bounding
along
his
veins
;
and
the
thoughts
went
rioting
through
his
brain
,
proud
,
joyful
,
tender
,
valorous
.
She
was
walking
on
before
him
so
lightly
and
so
erect
that
he
longed
to
run
after
her
noiselessly
,
catch
her
by
the
shoulders
and
say
something
foolish
and
affectionate
into
her
ear
.
She
seemed
to
him
so
frail
that
he
longed
to
defend
her
against
something
and
then
to
be
alone
with
her
.
Moments
of
their
secret
life
together
burst
like
stars
upon
his
memory
.
A
heliotrope
envelope
was
lying
beside
his
breakfast-cup
and
he
was
caressing
it
with
his
hand
.
Birds
were
twittering
in
the
ivy
and
the
sunny
web
of
the
curtain
was
shimmering
along
the
floor
:
he
could
not
eat
for
happiness
.
They
were
standing
on
the
crowded
platform
and
he
was
placing
a
ticket
inside
the
warm
palm
of
her
glove
.
He
was
standing
with
her
in
the
cold
,
looking
in
through
a
grated
window
at
a
man
making
bottles
in
a
roaring
furnace
.
It
was
very
cold
.
Her
face
,
fragrant
in
the
cold
air
,
was
quite
close
to
his
;
and
suddenly
he
called
out
to
the
man
at
the
furnace
:
"
Is
the
fire
hot
,
sir
?
"
But
the
man
could
not
hear
with
the
noise
of
the
furnace
.
It
was
just
as
well
.
He
might
have
answered
rudely
.
A
wave
of
yet
more
tender
joy
escaped
from
his
heart
and
went
coursing
in
warm
flood
along
his
arteries
.
Like
the
tender
fire
of
stars
moments
of
their
life
together
,
that
no
one
knew
of
or
would
ever
know
of
,
broke
upon
and
illumined
his
memory
.
He
longed
to
recall
to
her
those
moments
,
to
make
her
forget
the
years
of
their
dull
existence
together
and
remember
only
their
moments
of
ecstasy
.
For
the
years
,
he
felt
,
had
not
quenched
his
soul
or
hers
.
Their
children
,
his
writing
,
her
household
cares
had
not
quenched
all
their
souls
'
tender
fire
.
In
one
letter
that
he
had
written
to
her
then
he
had
said
:
"
Why
is
it
that
words
like
these
seem
to
me
so
dull
and
cold
?
Is
it
because
there
is
no
word
tender
enough
to
be
your
name
?
"
Like
distant
music
these
words
that
he
had
written
years
before
were
borne
towards
him
from
the
past
.
He
longed
to
be
alone
with
her
.
When
the
others
had
gone
away
,
when
he
and
she
were
in
the
room
in
the
hotel
,
then
they
would
be
alone
together
.
He
would
call
her
softly
:
"
Gretta
!
"
Perhaps
she
would
not
hear
at
once
:
she
would
be
undressing
.
Then
something
in
his
voice
would
strike
her
.
She
would
turn
and
look
at
him
...
.
