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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Стр. 22/274
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She
would
set
her
quick
mind
to
work
upon
that
,
and
then
make
the
inconsequent
retort
,
which
he
accepted
as
perfectly
sagacious
,
because
,
in
fact
,
it
was
so
--
"
Well
,
and
you
?
You
were
born
there
,
too
.
"
He
knew
his
answer
.
"
That
's
different
.
I
've
been
away
ten
years
.
Dad
never
had
such
a
long
spell
;
and
it
was
more
than
thirty
years
ago
.
"
She
was
the
first
person
to
whom
he
opened
his
lips
after
receiving
the
news
of
his
father
's
death
.
"
It
has
killed
him
!
"
he
said
.
He
had
walked
straight
out
of
town
with
the
news
,
straight
out
before
him
in
the
noonday
sun
on
the
white
road
,
and
his
feet
had
brought
him
face
to
face
with
her
in
the
hall
of
the
ruined
palazzo
,
a
room
magnificent
and
naked
,
with
here
and
there
a
long
strip
of
damask
,
black
with
damp
and
age
,
hanging
down
on
a
bare
panel
of
the
wall
.
It
was
furnished
with
exactly
one
gilt
armchair
,
with
a
broken
back
,
and
an
octagon
columnar
stand
bearing
a
heavy
marble
vase
ornamented
with
sculptured
masks
and
garlands
of
flowers
,
and
cracked
from
top
to
bottom
.
Charles
Gould
was
dusty
with
the
white
dust
of
the
road
lying
on
his
boots
,
on
his
shoulders
,
on
his
cap
with
two
peaks
.
Water
dripped
from
under
it
all
over
his
face
,
and
he
grasped
a
thick
oaken
cudgel
in
his
bare
right
hand
.
She
went
very
pale
under
the
roses
of
her
big
straw
hat
,
gloved
,
swinging
a
clear
sunshade
,
caught
just
as
she
was
going
out
to
meet
him
at
the
bottom
of
the
hill
,
where
three
poplars
stand
near
the
wall
of
a
vineyard
.
"
It
has
killed
him
!
"
he
repeated
.
"
He
ought
to
have
had
many
years
yet
.
We
are
a
long-lived
family
.
"
She
was
too
startled
to
say
anything
;
he
was
contemplating
with
a
penetrating
and
motionless
stare
the
cracked
marble
urn
as
though
he
had
resolved
to
fix
its
shape
for
ever
in
his
memory
.
