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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 115/416
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Annixter
stood
for
a
moment
thoughtful
,
his
protruding
lower
lip
thrust
out
,
his
hands
in
his
pocket
.
“
I
suppose
she
’
ll
quit
now
,
”
he
muttered
.
“
Suppose
she
’
ll
leave
the
ranch
—
if
she
hates
me
like
that
.
Well
,
she
can
go
—
that
’
s
all
—
she
can
go
.
Fool
feemale
girl
,
”
he
muttered
between
his
teeth
,
“
petticoat
mess
.
”
He
was
about
to
sit
down
to
his
supper
when
his
eye
fell
upon
the
Irish
setter
,
on
his
haunches
in
the
doorway
.
There
was
an
expectant
,
ingratiating
look
on
the
dog
’
s
face
.
No
doubt
,
he
suspected
it
was
time
for
eating
.
“
Get
out
—
YOU
!
”
roared
Annixter
in
a
tempest
of
wrath
.
The
dog
slunk
back
,
his
tail
shut
down
close
,
his
ears
drooping
,
but
instead
of
running
away
,
he
lay
down
and
rolled
supinely
upon
his
back
,
the
very
image
of
submission
,
tame
,
abject
,
disgusting
.
It
was
the
one
thing
to
drive
Annixter
to
a
fury
.
He
kicked
the
dog
off
the
porch
in
a
rolling
explosion
of
oaths
,
and
flung
himself
down
to
his
seat
before
the
table
,
fuming
and
panting
.
“
Damn
the
dog
and
the
girl
and
the
whole
rotten
business
—
and
now
,
”
he
exclaimed
,
as
a
sudden
fancied
qualm
arose
in
his
stomach
,
“
now
,
it
’
s
all
made
me
sick
.
Might
have
known
it
.
Oh
,
it
only
lacked
that
to
wind
up
the
whole
day
.
Let
her
go
,
I
don
’
t
care
,
and
the
sooner
the
better
.
”
He
countermanded
the
supper
and
went
to
bed
before
it
was
dark
,
lighting
his
lamp
,
on
the
chair
near
the
head
of
the
bed
,
and
opening
his
“
Copperfield
”
at
the
place
marked
by
the
strip
of
paper
torn
from
the
bag
of
prunes
.
For
upward
of
an
hour
he
read
the
novel
,
methodically
swallowing
one
prune
every
time
he
reached
the
bottom
of
a
page
.
About
nine
o
’
clock
he
blew
out
the
lamp
and
,
punching
up
his
pillow
,
settled
himself
for
the
night
.
Then
,
as
his
mind
relaxed
in
that
strange
,
hypnotic
condition
that
comes
just
before
sleep
,
a
series
of
pictures
of
the
day
’
s
doings
passed
before
his
imagination
like
the
roll
of
a
kinetoscope
.
First
,
it
was
Hilma
Tree
,
as
he
had
seen
her
in
the
dairy
-
house
—
charming
,
delicious
,
radiant
of
youth
,
her
thick
,
white
neck
with
its
pale
amber
shadows
under
the
chin
;
her
wide
,
open
eyes
rimmed
with
fine
,
black
lashes
;
the
deep
swell
of
her
breast
and
hips
,
the
delicate
,
lustrous
floss
on
her
cheek
,
impalpable
as
the
pollen
of
a
flower
.
He
saw
her
standing
there
in
the
scintillating
light
of
the
morning
,
her
smooth
arms
wet
with
milk
,
redolent
and
fragrant
of
milk
,
her
whole
,
desirable
figure
moving
in
the
golden
glory
of
the
sun
,
steeped
in
a
lambent
flame
,
saturated
with
it
,
glowing
with
it
,
joyous
as
the
dawn
itself
.
Then
it
was
Los
Muertos
and
Hooven
,
the
sordid
little
Dutchman
,
grimed
with
the
soil
he
worked
in
,
yet
vividly
remembering
a
period
of
military
glory
,
exciting
himself
with
recollections
of
Gravelotte
and
the
Kaiser
,
but
contented
now
in
the
country
of
his
adoption
,
defining
the
Fatherland
as
the
place
where
wife
and
children
lived
.
Then
came
the
ranch
house
of
Los
Muertos
,
under
the
grove
of
cypress
and
eucalyptus
,
with
its
smooth
,
gravelled
driveway
and
well
-
groomed
lawns
;
Mrs
.
