-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Эрнест Хэмингуэй
-
- Прощай, оружие!
-
- Стр. 29/425
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
Good
-
night
,
little
puppy
.
"
I
knocked
over
his
candle
with
the
pillow
and
got
into
bed
in
the
dark
.
Rinaldi
picked
up
the
candle
,
lit
it
and
went
on
reading
.
I
was
away
for
two
days
at
the
posts
.
When
I
got
home
it
was
too
late
and
I
did
not
see
Miss
Barkley
until
the
next
evening
.
She
was
not
in
the
garden
and
I
had
to
wait
in
the
office
of
the
hospital
until
she
came
down
.
There
were
many
marble
busts
on
painted
wooden
pillars
along
the
walls
of
the
room
they
used
for
an
office
.
The
hall
too
,
that
the
office
opened
on
,
was
lined
with
them
.
They
had
the
complete
marble
quality
of
all
looking
alike
.
Sculpture
had
always
seemed
a
dull
business
—
still
,
bronzes
looked
like
something
.
But
marble
busts
all
looked
like
a
cemetery
.
There
was
one
fine
cemetery
though
—
the
one
at
Pisa
.
Genoa
was
the
place
to
see
the
bad
marbles
.
This
had
been
the
villa
of
a
very
wealthy
German
and
the
busts
must
have
cost
him
plenty
.
I
wondered
who
had
done
them
and
how
much
he
got
.
I
tried
to
make
out
whether
they
were
members
of
the
family
or
what
;
but
they
were
all
uniformly
classical
.
You
could
not
tell
anything
about
them
.
I
sat
on
a
chair
and
held
my
cap
.
We
were
supposed
to
wear
steel
helmets
even
in
Gorizia
but
they
were
uncomfortable
and
too
bloody
theatrical
in
a
town
where
the
civilian
inhabitants
had
not
been
evacuated
.
I
wore
one
when
we
went
up
to
the
posts
and
carried
an
English
gas
mask
.
We
were
just
beginning
to
get
some
of
them
.
They
were
a
real
mask
.
Also
we
were
required
to
wear
an
automatic
pistol
;
even
doctors
and
sanitary
officers
.
I
felt
it
against
the
back
of
the
chair
.
You
were
liable
to
arrest
if
you
did
not
have
one
worn
in
plain
sight
.
Rinaldi
carried
a
holster
stuffed
with
toilet
paper
.
I
wore
a
real
one
and
felt
like
a
gunman
until
I
practised
firing
it
.
It
was
an
Astra
7
.
65
caliber
with
a
short
barrel
and
it
jumped
so
sharply
when
you
let
it
off
that
there
was
no
question
of
hitting
anything
.
I
practised
with
it
,
holding
below
the
target
and
trying
to
master
the
jerk
of
the
ridiculous
short
barrel
until
I
could
hit
within
a
yard
of
where
I
aimed
at
twenty
paces
and
then
the
ridiculousness
of
carrying
a
pistol
at
all
came
over
me
and
I
soon
forgot
it
and
carried
it
flopping
against
the
small
of
my
back
with
no
feeling
at
all
except
a
vague
sort
of
shame
when
I
met
English
-
speaking
people
.
I
sat
now
in
the
chair
and
an
orderly
of
some
sort
looked
at
me
disapprovingly
from
behind
a
desk
while
I
looked
at
the
marble
floor
,
the
pillars
with
the
marble
busts
,
and
the
frescoes
on
the
wall
and
waited
for
Miss
Barkley
.
The
frescoes
were
not
bad
.
Any
frescoes
were
good
when
they
started
to
peel
and
flake
off
.
I
saw
Catherine
Barkley
coming
down
the
hall
,
and
stood
up
.
She
did
not
seem
tall
walking
toward
me
but
she
looked
very
lovely
.
"
Good
-
evening
,
Mr
.
Henry
,
"
she
said
.
"
How
do
you
do
?
"
I
said
.
The
orderly
was
listening
behind
the
desk
.
"
Shall
we
sit
here
or
go
out
in
the
garden
?
"
