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- Джон Фоулз
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- Коллекционер
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- Стр. 215/299
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She
wanted
terribly
to
discuss
it
.
Then
it
was
her
daughter
.
She
said
,
she
’
s
sixteen
now
.
I
just
can
’
t
get
across
to
her
.
Sometimes
when
I
talk
to
her
I
feel
like
an
animal
in
a
zoo
.
She
just
stands
outside
and
watches
me
.
I
knew
she
’
d
said
it
before
.
Or
read
it
somewhere
.
You
can
always
tell
.
They
’
re
all
the
same
,
women
like
her
.
It
’
s
not
the
teenagers
and
daughters
who
are
different
.
We
haven
’
t
changed
,
we
’
re
just
young
.
It
’
s
the
silly
new
middle
-
aged
people
who
’
ve
got
to
be
young
who
’
ve
changed
.
This
desperate
silly
trying
to
stay
with
us
.
They
can
’
t
be
with
us
.
We
don
’
t
want
them
to
be
with
us
.
We
don
’
t
want
them
to
wear
our
clothes
-
styles
and
use
our
language
and
have
our
interests
.
They
imitate
us
so
badly
that
we
can
’
t
respect
them
.
But
it
made
me
feel
,
that
meeting
with
her
,
that
G
.
P
.
did
love
me
(
want
me
)
.
That
there
’
s
a
deep
bond
between
us
—
his
loving
me
in
his
way
,
my
liking
him
very
much
(
even
loving
him
,
but
not
sexually
)
in
my
way
—
a
feeling
that
we
’
re
groping
towards
a
compromise
.
A
sort
of
fog
of
unsolved
desire
and
sadness
between
us
.
Something
other
people
(
like
the
N
woman
)
couldn
’
t
ever
understand
.
Two
people
in
a
desert
,
trying
to
find
both
themselves
and
an
oasis
where
they
can
live
together
.
I
’
ve
begun
to
think
more
and
more
like
this
—
it
is
terribly
cruel
of
fate
to
have
put
these
twenty
years
between
us
.
Why
couldn
’
t
he
be
my
age
,
or
me
his
?
So
the
age
thing
is
no
longer
the
all
-
important
factor
that
puts
love
right
out
of
the
question
but
a
sort
of
cruel
wall
fate
has
built
between
us
.
I
don
’
t
think
any
more
,
the
wall
is
between
us
,
I
think
,
the
wall
keeps
us
apart
.
November
2nd
