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- Джон Фоулз
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The collector
When
she
was
home
from
her
boarding
-
school
I
used
to
see
her
almost
every
day
sometimes
,
because
their
house
was
right
opposite
the
Town
Hall
Annexe
.
She
and
her
younger
sister
used
to
go
in
and
out
a
lot
,
often
with
young
men
,
which
of
course
I
didn
’
t
like
.
When
I
had
a
free
moment
from
the
files
and
ledgers
I
stood
by
the
window
and
used
to
look
down
over
the
road
over
the
frosting
and
sometimes
I
’
d
see
her
.
In
the
evening
I
marked
it
in
my
observations
diary
,
at
first
with
X
,
and
then
when
I
knew
her
name
with
M
.
I
saw
her
several
times
outside
too
.
I
stood
right
behind
her
once
in
a
queue
at
the
public
library
down
Crossfield
Street
.
She
didn
’
t
look
once
at
me
,
but
I
watched
the
back
of
her
head
and
her
hair
in
a
long
pigtail
.
It
was
very
pale
,
silky
,
like
Burnet
cocoons
.
All
in
one
pigtail
coming
down
almost
to
her
waist
,
sometimes
in
front
,
sometimes
at
the
back
.
Sometimes
she
wore
it
up
.
Only
once
,
before
she
came
to
be
my
guest
here
,
did
I
have
the
privilege
to
see
her
with
it
loose
,
and
it
took
my
breath
away
it
was
so
beautiful
,
like
a
mermaid
.
Another
time
one
Saturday
off
when
I
went
up
to
the
Natural
History
Museum
I
came
back
on
the
same
train
.
She
sat
three
seats
down
and
sideways
to
me
,
and
read
a
book
,
so
I
could
watch
her
for
thirty
-
five
minutes
.
Seeing
her
always
made
me
feel
like
I
was
catching
a
rarity
,
going
up
to
it
very
careful
,
heart
-
in
-
mouth
as
they
say
.
A
Pale
Clouded
Yellow
,
for
instance
.
I
always
thought
of
her
like
that
,
I
mean
words
like
elusive
and
sporadic
,
and
very
refined
—
not
like
the
other
ones
,
even
the
pretty
ones
.
More
for
the
real
connoisseur
.
The
year
she
was
still
at
school
I
didn
’
t
know
who
she
was
,
only
how
her
father
was
Doctor
Grey
and
some
talk
I
overheard
once
at
a
Bug
Section
meeting
about
how
her
mother
drank
.
I
heard
her
mother
speak
once
in
a
shop
,
she
had
a
la
-
di
-
da
voice
and
you
could
see
she
was
the
type
to
drink
,
too
much
make
-
up
,
etcetera
.
Well
,
then
there
was
the
bit
in
the
local
paper
about
the
scholarship
she
’
d
won
and
how
clever
she
was
,
and
her
name
as
beautiful
as
herself
,
Miranda
.
So
I
knew
she
was
up
in
London
studying
art
.
It
really
made
a
difference
,
that
newspaper
article
.
It
seemed
like
we
became
more
intimate
,
although
of
course
we
still
did
not
know
each
other
in
the
ordinary
way
.
I
can
’
t
say
what
it
was
,
the
very
first
time
I
saw
her
,
I
knew
she
was
the
only
one
.
Of
course
I
am
not
mad
,
I
knew
it
was
just
a
dream
and
it
always
would
have
been
if
it
hadn
’
t
been
for
the
money
.
I
used
to
have
daydreams
about
her
,
I
used
to
think
of
stories
where
I
met
her
,
did
things
she
admired
,
married
her
and
all
that
.
Nothing
nasty
,
that
was
never
until
what
I
’
ll
explain
later
.
She
drew
pictures
and
I
looked
after
my
collection
(
in
my
dreams
)
.
It
was
always
she
loving
me
and
my
collection
,
drawing
and
colouring
them
;
working
together
in
a
beautiful
modern
house
in
a
big
room
with
one
of
those
huge
glass
windows
;
meetings
there
of
the
Bug
Section
,
where
instead
of
saying
almost
nothing
in
case
I
made
mistakes
we
were
the
popular
host
and
hostess
.
She
all
pretty
with
her
pale
blonde
hair
and
grey
eyes
and
of
course
the
other
men
all
green
round
the
gills
.
The
only
times
I
didn
’
t
have
nice
dreams
about
her
being
when
I
saw
her
with
a
certain
young
man
,
a
loud
noisy
public
-
school
type
who
had
a
sports
car
.
I
stood
beside
him
once
in
Barclays
waiting
to
pay
in
and
I
heard
him
say
,
I
’
ll
have
it
in
fivers
;
the
joke
being
it
was
only
a
cheque
for
ten
pounds
.
They
all
behave
like
that
.
Well
,
I
saw
her
climb
in
his
car
sometimes
,
or
them
out
together
in
the
town
in
it
,
and
those
days
I
was
very
short
with
the
others
in
the
office
,
and
I
didn
’
t
use
to
mark
the
X
in
my
entomological
observations
diary
(
all
this
was
before
she
went
to
London
,
she
dropped
him
then
)
.
Those
were
days
I
let
myself
have
the
bad
dreams
.
She
cried
or
usually
knelt
.
Once
I
let
myself
dream
I
hit
her
across
the
face
as
I
saw
it
done
once
by
a
chap
in
a
telly
play
.
Perhaps
that
was
when
it
all
started
.
My
father
was
killed
driving
.
I
was
two
.
That
was
in
1937
.
He
was
drunk
,
but
Aunt
Annie
always
said
it
was
my
mother
that
drove
him
to
drink
.
They
never
told
me
what
really
happened
,
but
she
went
off
soon
after
and
left
me
with
Aunt
Annie
,
she
only
wanted
an
easy
time
.
My
cousin
Mabel
once
told
me
(
when
we
were
kids
,
in
a
quarrel
)
she
was
a
woman
of
the
streets
who
went
off
with
a
foreigner
.
I
was
stupid
,
I
went
straight
and
asked
Aunt
Annie
and
if
there
was
any
covering
-
up
to
do
,
of
course
she
did
it
.
I
don
’
t
care
now
,
if
she
is
still
alive
,
I
don
’
t
want
to
meet
her
,
I
’
ve
got
no
interest
.
Aunt
Annie
’
s
always
said
good
riddance
in
so
many
words
,
and
I
agree
.
