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- Эдит Уортон
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- Стр. 18/70
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A
great
silence
filled
the
room
.
It
seemed
to
Glennard
that
the
words
had
burst
from
him
as
blood
gushes
from
a
wound
.
“
Great
Scott
!
”
said
Flamel
,
sitting
up
.
“
A
collection
of
Margaret
Aubyn
’
s
letters
?
Did
you
say
you
had
them
?
”
“
They
were
left
me
—
by
my
friend
.
”
“
I
see
.
Was
he
—
well
,
no
matter
.
You
’
re
to
be
congratulated
,
at
any
rate
.
What
are
you
going
to
do
with
them
?
”
Glennard
stood
up
with
a
sense
of
weariness
in
all
his
bones
.
“
Oh
,
I
don
’
t
know
.
I
haven
’
t
thought
much
about
it
.
I
just
happened
to
see
that
some
fellow
was
writing
her
life
—
”
“
Joslin
;
yes
.
You
didn
’
t
think
of
giving
them
to
him
?
”
Glennard
had
lounged
across
the
room
and
stood
staring
up
at
a
bronze
Bacchus
who
drooped
his
garlanded
head
above
the
pediment
of
an
Italian
cabinet
.
“
What
ought
I
to
do
?
You
’
re
just
the
fellow
to
advise
me
.
”
He
felt
the
blood
in
his
cheek
as
he
spoke
.
Flamel
sat
with
meditative
eye
.
“
What
do
you
want
to
do
with
them
?
”
he
asked
.
“
I
want
to
publish
them
,
”
said
Glennard
,
swinging
round
with
sudden
energy
—
“
If
I
can
—
”
“
If
you
can
?
They
’
re
yours
,
you
say
?
”
