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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 192/192
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"
Yes
,
he
went
home
.
And
when
I
was
only
a
week
in
the
convent
he
died
and
he
was
buried
in
Oughterard
,
where
his
people
came
from
.
O
,
the
day
I
heard
that
,
that
he
was
dead
!
"
She
stopped
,
choking
with
sobs
,
and
,
overcome
by
emotion
,
flung
herself
face
downward
on
the
bed
,
sobbing
in
the
quilt
.
Gabriel
held
her
hand
for
a
moment
longer
,
irresolutely
,
and
then
,
shy
of
intruding
on
her
grief
,
let
it
fall
gently
and
walked
quietly
to
the
window
.
She
was
fast
asleep
.
Gabriel
,
leaning
on
his
elbow
,
looked
for
a
few
moments
unresentfully
on
her
tangled
hair
and
half-open
mouth
,
listening
to
her
deep-drawn
breath
.
So
she
had
had
that
romance
in
her
life
:
a
man
had
died
for
her
sake
.
It
hardly
pained
him
now
to
think
how
poor
a
part
he
,
her
husband
,
had
played
in
her
life
.
He
watched
her
while
she
slept
,
as
though
he
and
she
had
never
lived
together
as
man
and
wife
.
His
curious
eyes
rested
long
upon
her
face
and
on
her
hair
:
and
,
as
he
thought
of
what
she
must
have
been
then
,
in
that
time
of
her
first
girlish
beauty
,
a
strange
,
friendly
pity
for
her
entered
his
soul
.
He
did
not
like
to
say
even
to
himself
that
her
face
was
no
longer
beautiful
,
but
he
knew
that
it
was
no
longer
the
face
for
which
Michael
Furey
had
braved
death
.
Perhaps
she
had
not
told
him
all
the
story
.
His
eyes
moved
to
the
chair
over
which
she
had
thrown
some
of
her
clothes
.
A
petticoat
string
dangled
to
the
floor
.
One
boot
stood
upright
,
its
limp
upper
fallen
down
:
the
fellow
of
it
lay
upon
its
side
.
He
wondered
at
his
riot
of
emotions
of
an
hour
before
.
From
what
had
it
proceeded
?
From
his
aunt
's
supper
,
from
his
own
foolish
speech
,
from
the
wine
and
dancing
,
the
merry-making
when
saying
good-night
in
the
hall
,
the
pleasure
of
the
walk
along
the
river
in
the
snow
.
Poor
Aunt
Julia
!
She
,
too
,
would
soon
be
a
shade
with
the
shade
of
Patrick
Morkan
and
his
horse
.
He
had
caught
that
haggard
look
upon
her
face
for
a
moment
when
she
was
singing
Arrayed
for
the
Bridal
.
Soon
,
perhaps
,
he
would
be
sitting
in
that
same
drawing-room
,
dressed
in
black
,
his
silk
hat
on
his
knees
.
The
blinds
would
be
drawn
down
and
Aunt
Kate
would
be
sitting
beside
him
,
crying
and
blowing
her
nose
and
telling
him
how
Julia
had
died
.
He
would
cast
about
in
his
mind
for
some
words
that
might
console
her
,
and
would
find
only
lame
and
useless
ones
.
Yes
,
yes
:
that
would
happen
very
soon
.
The
air
of
the
room
chilled
his
shoulders
.
He
stretched
himself
cautiously
along
under
the
sheets
and
lay
down
beside
his
wife
.
One
by
one
,
they
were
all
becoming
shades
.
Better
pass
boldly
into
that
other
world
,
in
the
full
glory
of
some
passion
,
than
fade
and
wither
dismally
with
age
.
He
thought
of
how
she
who
lay
beside
him
had
locked
in
her
heart
for
so
many
years
that
image
of
her
lover
's
eyes
when
he
had
told
her
that
he
did
not
wish
to
live
.
Generous
tears
filled
Gabriel
's
eyes
.
He
had
never
felt
like
that
himself
towards
any
woman
,
but
he
knew
that
such
a
feeling
must
be
love
.
The
tears
gathered
more
thickly
in
his
eyes
and
in
the
partial
darkness
he
imagined
he
saw
the
form
of
a
young
man
standing
under
a
dripping
tree
.
Other
forms
were
near
.
His
soul
had
approached
that
region
where
dwell
the
vast
hosts
of
the
dead
.
He
was
conscious
of
,
but
could
not
apprehend
,
their
wayward
and
flickering
existence
.
His
own
identity
was
fading
out
into
a
grey
impalpable
world
:
the
solid
world
itself
,
which
these
dead
had
one
time
reared
and
lived
in
,
was
dissolving
and
dwindling
A
few
light
taps
upon
the
pane
made
him
turn
to
the
window
.
It
had
begun
to
snow
again
.
He
watched
sleepily
the
flakes
,
silver
and
dark
,
falling
obliquely
against
the
lamplight
.
The
time
had
come
for
him
to
set
out
on
his
journey
westward
.
Yes
,
the
newspapers
were
right
:
snow
was
general
all
over
Ireland
.
It
was
falling
on
every
part
of
the
dark
central
plain
,
on
the
treeless
hills
,
falling
softly
upon
the
Bog
of
Allen
and
,
farther
westward
,
softly
falling
into
the
dark
mutinous
Shannon
waves
.
It
was
falling
,
too
,
upon
every
part
of
the
lonely
churchyard
on
the
hill
where
Michael
Furey
lay
buried
.
It
lay
thickly
drifted
on
the
crooked
crosses
and
headstones
,
on
the
spears
of
the
little
gate
,
on
the
barren
thorns
.
His
soul
swooned
slowly
as
he
heard
the
snow
falling
faintly
through
the
universe
and
faintly
falling
,
like
the
descent
of
their
last
end
,
upon
all
the
living
and
the
dead
.