-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Эдит Уортон
-
- Пробный камень
-
- Стр. 46/70
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
“
Only
the
last
number
of
the
Horoscope
.
I
thought
I
’
d
left
it
on
this
table
.
”
He
said
nothing
,
and
she
went
on
:
“
You
haven
’
t
seen
it
?
”
“
No
,
”
he
returned
coldly
.
The
magazine
was
locked
in
his
desk
.
His
wife
had
moved
to
the
mantel
-
piece
.
She
stood
facing
him
and
as
he
looked
up
he
met
her
tentative
gaze
.
“
I
was
reading
an
article
in
it
—
a
review
of
Mrs
.
Aubyn
’
s
letters
,
”
she
added
,
slowly
,
with
her
deep
,
deliberate
blush
.
Glennard
stooped
to
toss
his
cigar
into
the
fire
.
He
felt
a
savage
wish
that
she
would
not
speak
the
other
woman
’
s
name
;
nothing
else
seemed
to
matter
.
“
You
seem
to
do
a
lot
of
reading
,
”
he
said
.
She
still
earnestly
confronted
him
.
“
I
was
keeping
this
for
you
—
I
thought
it
might
interest
you
,
”
she
said
,
with
an
air
of
gentle
insistence
.
He
stood
up
and
turned
away
.
He
was
sure
she
knew
that
he
had
taken
the
review
and
he
felt
that
he
was
beginning
to
hate
her
again
.
“
I
haven
’
t
time
for
such
things
,
”
he
said
,
indifferently
.
As
he
moved
to
the
door
he
heard
her
take
a
precipitate
step
forward
;
then
she
paused
and
sank
without
speaking
into
the
chair
from
which
he
had
risen
.
As
Glennard
,
in
the
raw
February
sunlight
,
mounted
the
road
to
the
cemetery
,
he
felt
the
beatitude
that
comes
with
an
abrupt
cessation
of
physical
pain
.
He
had
reached
the
point
where
self
-
analysis
ceases
;
the
impulse
that
moved
him
was
purely
intuitive
.
He
did
not
even
seek
a
reason
for
it
,
beyond
the
obvious
one
that
his
desire
to
stand
by
Margaret
Aubyn
’
s
grave
was
prompted
by
no
attempt
at
a
sentimental
reparation
,
but
rather
by
the
vague
need
to
affirm
in
some
way
the
reality
of
the
tie
between
them
.
The
ironical
promiscuity
of
death
had
brought
Mrs
.
Aubyn
back
to
share
the
narrow
hospitality
of
her
husband
’
s
last
lodging
;
but
though
Glennard
knew
she
had
been
buried
near
New
York
he
had
never
visited
her
grave
.
He
was
oppressed
,
as
he
now
threaded
the
long
avenues
,
by
a
chilling
vision
of
her
return
.
There
was
no
family
to
follow
her
hearse
;
she
had
died
alone
,
as
she
had
lived
;
and
the
“
distinguished
mourners
”
who
had
formed
the
escort
of
the
famous
writer
knew
nothing
of
the
woman
they
were
committing
to
the
grave
.
Glennard
could
not
even
remember
at
what
season
she
had
been
buried
;
but
his
mood
indulged
the
fancy
that
it
must
have
been
on
some
such
day
of
harsh
sunlight
,
the
incisive
February
brightness
that
gives
perspicuity
without
warmth
.
The
white
avenues
stretched
before
him
interminably
,
lined
with
stereotyped
emblems
of
affliction
,
as
though
all
the
platitudes
ever
uttered
had
been
turned
to
marble
and
set
up
over
the
unresisting
dead
.
Here
and
there
,
no
doubt
,
a
frigid
urn
or
an
insipid
angel
imprisoned
some
fine
-
fibred
grief
,
as
the
most
hackneyed
words
may
become
the
vehicle
of
rare
meanings
;
but
for
the
most
part
the
endless
alignment
of
monuments
seemed
to
embody
those
easy
generalizations
about
death
that
do
not
disturb
the
repose
of
the
living
.
Glennard
’
s
eye
,
as
he
followed
the
way
indicated
to
him
,
had
instinctively
sought
some
low
mound
with
a
quiet
headstone
.
He
had
forgotten
that
the
dead
seldom
plan
their
own
houses
,
and
with
a
pang
he
discovered
the
name
he
sought
on
the
cyclopean
base
of
a
granite
shaft
rearing
its
aggressive
height
at
the
angle
of
two
avenues
.
