-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джон Фоулз
-
- Волхв
-
- Стр. 31/136
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
You
’
re
going
to
marry
Pete
.
"
"
And
you
wouldn
’
t
marry
me
because
I
’
m
a
whore
and
a
colonial
.
"
"
I
wish
you
wouldn
’
t
use
that
word
.
"
"
And
you
wish
I
wouldn
’
t
use
that
word
.
"
Always
we
edged
away
from
the
brink
of
the
future
.
We
talked
about
a
future
,
about
living
in
a
cottage
,
where
I
should
write
,
about
buying
a
jeep
and
crossing
Australia
.
"
When
we
’
re
in
Alice
Springs
…
"
became
a
sort
of
joke
—
in
never
-
never
land
.
One
day
drifted
and
melted
into
another
.
I
knew
the
affaire
was
like
no
other
I
had
been
through
.
Apart
from
anything
else
it
was
so
much
happier
physically
.
Out
of
bed
I
felt
I
was
teaching
her
,
anglicizing
her
accent
,
polishing
off
her
roughnesses
,
her
provincialisms
;
in
bed
she
did
the
teaching
.
We
knew
this
reciprocity
without
being
able
,
perhaps
because
we
were
both
single
children
,
to
analyze
it
.
We
both
had
something
to
give
and
to
gain
…
and
at
the
same
time
a
physical
common
ground
,
the
same
appetites
,
the
same
tastes
,
the
same
freedom
from
inhibition
.
She
was
teaching
me
other
things
,
besides
the
art
of
love
;
but
that
is
how
I
thought
of
it
at
the
time
.
I
remember
one
day
when
we
were
standing
in
one
of
the
rooms
at
the
Tate
.
Alison
was
leaning
slightly
against
me
,
holding
my
hand
,
looking
in
her
childish
sweet
-
sucking
way
at
a
Renoir
.
I
suddenly
had
a
feeling
that
we
were
one
body
,
one
person
,
even
there
;
that
if
she
had
disappeared
it
would
have
been
as
if
I
had
lost
half
of
myself
.
A
terrible
deathlike
feeling
,
which
anyone
less
cerebral
and
self
-
absorbed
than
I
was
then
would
have
realized
was
simply
love
.
I
thought
it
was
desire
.
I
drove
her
straight
home
and
tore
her
clothes
off
.
Another
day
,
in
Jermyn
Street
,
we
ran
into
Billy
Whyte
,
an
Old
Etonian
I
had
known
quite
well
at
Magdalen
;
he
’
d
been
one
of
the
Hommes
Révoltés
.
He
was
pleasant
enough
,
not
in
the
least
snobbish
—
Etonians
very
seldom
are
—
but
he
carried
with
him
,
perhaps
in
spite
of
himself
,
an
unsloughable
air
of
high
caste
,
of
constant
contact
with
the
nicest
best
people
,
of
impeccable
upper
-
class
taste
in
facial
exPression
,
clothes
,
vocabulary
.
We
went
off
to
an
oyster
bar
;
he
’
d
just
heard
the
first
Colchesters
of
the
season
were
in
.
Alison
said
very
little
,
but
I
was
embarrassed
by
her
,
by
her
accent
,
by
the
difference
between
her
and
one
or
two
debs
who
were
sitting
near
us
.
She
left
us
for
a
moment
when
Billy
poured
the
last
of
the
Muscadet
.
"
Nice
girl
,
dear
boy
.
"
