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- Джон Фоулз
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- Стр. 14/136
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She
gave
me
a
little
bitten
-
in
grin
.
"
Je
vous
plais
?
"
"
Very
much
.
"
Her
look
was
so
direct
I
found
it
disconcerting
.
"
We
go
down
?
"
"
Just
one
finger
?
"
I
filled
her
glass
again
,
and
with
more
than
one
finger
.
Watching
the
whisky
fall
,
she
said
,
"
I
don
’
t
know
why
I
’
m
frightened
.
Why
am
I
frightened
?
"
"
What
of
?
"
She
turned
away
.
"
I
don
’
t
know
.
Maggie
.
The
boys
.
The
dear
old
diggers
.
"
"
This
roughhouse
?
"
"
Oh
God
.
It
was
so
stupid
.
There
was
a
nice
Israeli
boy
,
you
see
,
and
we
were
just
kissing
.
It
was
a
party
.
That
was
all
.
But
Charlie
told
Pete
,
and
they
just
picked
a
quarrel
,
and
…
oh
God
.
You
know
.
He
-
men
.
"
Downstairs
I
lost
her
for
a
time
.
A
group
formed
round
her
.
I
went
and
got
a
drink
and
passed
it
over
someone
’
s
shoulder
;
talk
about
Cannes
,
about
Collioure
and
Valencia
.
Jazz
had
started
in
the
back
room
and
I
went
into
the
doorway
to
watch
.
Outside
the
window
,
past
the
dark
dancers
,
were
dusk
trees
,
a
pale
amber
sky
.
I
had
a
sharp
sense
of
alienation
from
everyone
around
me
.
A
girl
with
spectacles
,
myopic
eyes
in
an
insipidly
pretty
face
,
one
of
those
soulful
-
intellectual
creatures
born
to
be
preyed
on
and
exploited
by
artistic
phonies
,
smiled
coyly
from
the
other
side
of
the
room
.
She
was
standing
alone
and
I
guessed
that
she
was
the
"
nice
English
girl
"
Margaret
had
picked
for
me
.
Her
lipstick
was
too
red
,
and
she
was
as
familiar
as
a
species
of
bird
.
I
turned
away
from
her
as
from
a
cliff
-
edge
,
and
went
and
sat
on
the
floor
by
a
bookshelf
.
There
I
pretended
to
read
a
paperback
.
