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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 389/416
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Repeatedly
she
shook
her
;
repeatedly
she
tried
to
raise
the
inert
eyelids
with
the
point
of
her
finger
.
But
her
mother
no
longer
stirred
.
The
gaunt
,
lean
body
,
with
its
bony
face
and
sunken
eye
-
sockets
,
lay
back
,
prone
upon
the
ground
,
the
feet
upturned
and
showing
the
ragged
,
worn
soles
of
the
shoes
,
the
forehead
and
grey
hair
beaded
with
fog
,
the
poor
,
faded
bonnet
awry
,
the
poor
,
faded
dress
soiled
and
torn
.
Hilda
drew
close
to
her
mother
,
kissing
her
face
,
twining
her
arms
around
her
neck
.
For
a
long
time
,
she
lay
that
way
,
alternately
sobbing
and
sleeping
.
Then
,
after
a
long
time
,
there
was
a
stir
.
She
woke
from
a
doze
to
find
a
police
officer
and
two
or
three
other
men
bending
over
her
.
Some
one
carried
a
lantern
.
Terrified
,
smitten
dumb
,
she
was
unable
to
answer
the
questions
put
to
her
.
Then
a
woman
,
evidently
a
mistress
of
the
house
on
the
top
of
the
hill
,
arrived
and
took
Hilda
in
her
arms
and
cried
over
her
.
“
I
’
ll
take
the
little
girl
,
”
she
said
to
the
police
officer
.
“
But
the
mother
,
can
you
save
her
?
Is
she
too
far
gone
?
”
“
I
’
ve
sent
for
a
doctor
,
”
replied
the
other
.
Just
before
the
ladies
left
the
table
,
young
Lambert
raised
his
glass
of
Madeira
.
Turning
towards
the
wife
of
the
Railroad
King
,
he
said
:
“
My
best
compliments
for
a
delightful
dinner
.
”
The
doctor
who
had
been
bending
over
Mrs
.
Hooven
,
rose
.
“
It
’
s
no
use
,
”
he
said
;
“
she
has
been
dead
some
time
—
exhaustion
from
starvation
.
”
On
Division
Number
Three
of
the
Los
Muertos
ranch
the
wheat
had
already
been
cut
,
and
S
.
Behrman
on
a
certain
morning
in
the
first
week
of
August
drove
across
the
open
expanse
of
stubble
toward
the
southwest
,
his
eyes
searching
the
horizon
for
the
feather
of
smoke
that
would
mark
the
location
of
the
steam
harvester
.
However
,
he
saw
nothing
.
The
stubble
extended
onward
apparently
to
the
very
margin
of
the
world
.
At
length
,
S
.
Behrman
halted
his
buggy
and
brought
out
his
field
glasses
from
beneath
the
seat
.
He
stood
up
in
his
place
and
,
adjusting
the
lenses
,
swept
the
prospect
to
the
south
and
west
.
It
was
the
same
as
though
the
sea
of
land
were
,
in
reality
,
the
ocean
,
and
he
,
lost
in
an
open
boat
,
were
scanning
the
waste
through
his
glasses
,
looking
for
the
smoke
of
a
steamer
,
hull
down
,
below
the
horizon
.
“
Wonder
,
”
he
muttered
,
“
if
they
’
re
working
on
Four
this
morning
?
”
