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- Джон Уиндем
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- День триффидов
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- Стр. 36/223
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"
All
the
same
,
it
don
’
t
seem
right
,
"
she
said
again
,
but
there
was
less
conviction
in
her
tone
.
Presently
she
put
the
child
down
and
began
to
peel
the
orange
.
.
.
Piccadilly
Circus
was
the
most
populous
place
I
had
found
so
far
.
It
seemed
crowded
after
the
rest
,
though
there
were
probably
less
than
a
hundred
people
there
,
all
told
.
Mostly
they
were
wearing
queer
,
ill
-
assorted
clothes
and
were
prowling
restlessly
around
as
though
still
semi
dazed
.
Occasionally
a
mishap
would
bring
an
outburst
of
profanity
and
futile
rage
—
rather
alarming
to
hear
,
because
it
was
itself
the
product
of
fright
,
and
childish
in
temper
.
But
with
one
exception
there
was
little
talk
and
little
noise
.
It
seemed
as
though
their
blindness
had
shut
people
into
themselves
.
The
exception
had
found
himself
a
position
out
on
one
of
the
traffic
islands
.
He
was
a
tall
,
elderly
,
gaunt
man
with
a
bush
of
wiry
gray
hair
,
and
he
was
holding
forth
emphatically
about
repentance
,
the
wrath
to
come
,
and
the
uncomfortable
prospects
for
sinners
.
Nobody
was
paying
him
any
attention
;
for
most
of
them
the
day
of
wrath
had
already
arrived
.
Then
,
from
a
distance
,
came
a
sound
which
caught
every
-
ones
attention
:
a
gradually
swelling
chorus
:
And
when
I
die
,
Don
’
t
bury
me
at
all
,
Just
pickle
my
bones
in
alcohol
.
Dreary
and
untuneful
,
it
slurred
through
the
empty
streets
,
echoing
dismally
back
and
forth
.
Every
head
in
the
Circus
was
turning
now
left
,
now
right
,
trying
to
place
its
direction
.
