-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Фрэнсис Бёрнетт
-
- Маленький лорд Фаунтлерой
-
- Стр. 107/138
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
veins
on
the
old
Earl
’
s
forehead
stood
out
like
purple
cords
.
Something
else
stood
out
upon
it
too
—
cold
drops
of
moisture
.
He
took
out
his
handkerchief
and
swept
them
away
.
His
smile
grew
even
more
bitter
.
“
And
I
,
”
he
said
,
“
I
objected
to
—
to
the
other
woman
,
the
mother
of
this
child
”
(
pointing
to
the
sleeping
form
on
the
sofa
)
;
“
I
refused
to
recognize
her
.
And
yet
she
could
spell
her
own
name
.
I
suppose
this
is
retribution
.
”
Suddenly
he
sprang
up
from
his
chair
and
began
to
walk
up
and
down
the
room
.
Fierce
and
terrible
words
poured
forth
from
his
lips
.
His
rage
and
hatred
and
cruel
disappointment
shook
him
as
a
storm
shakes
a
tree
.
His
violence
was
something
dreadful
to
see
,
and
yet
Mr
.
Havisham
noticed
that
at
the
very
worst
of
his
wrath
he
never
seemed
to
forget
the
little
sleeping
figure
on
the
yellow
satin
cushion
,
and
that
he
never
once
spoke
loud
enough
to
awaken
it
.
“
I
might
have
known
it
,
”
he
said
.
“
They
were
a
disgrace
to
me
from
their
first
hour
!
I
hated
them
both
;
and
they
hated
me
!
Bevis
was
the
worse
of
the
two
.
I
will
not
believe
this
yet
,
though
!
I
will
contend
against
it
to
the
last
.
But
it
is
like
Bevis
—
it
is
like
him
!
”
And
then
he
raged
again
and
asked
questions
about
the
woman
,
about
her
proofs
,
and
pacing
the
room
,
turned
first
white
and
then
purple
in
his
repressed
fury
.
When
at
last
he
had
learned
all
there
was
to
be
told
,
and
knew
the
worst
,
Mr
.
Havisham
looked
at
him
with
a
feeling
of
anxiety
.
He
looked
broken
and
haggard
and
changed
.
His
rages
had
always
been
bad
for
him
,
but
this
one
had
been
worse
than
the
rest
because
there
had
been
something
more
than
rage
in
it
.
He
came
slowly
back
to
the
sofa
,
at
last
,
and
stood
near
it
.
“
If
any
one
had
told
me
I
could
be
fond
of
a
child
,
”
he
said
,
his
harsh
voice
low
and
unsteady
,
“
I
should
not
have
believed
them
.
I
always
detested
children
—
my
own
more
than
the
rest
.
I
am
fond
of
this
one
;
he
is
fond
of
me
”
(
with
a
bitter
smile
)
.
“
I
am
not
popular
;
I
never
was
.
But
he
is
fond
of
me
.
He
never
was
afraid
of
me
—
he
always
trusted
me
.
He
would
have
filled
my
place
better
than
I
have
filled
it
.
I
know
that
.
He
would
have
been
an
honor
to
the
name
.
”
He
bent
down
and
stood
a
minute
or
so
looking
at
the
happy
,
sleeping
face
.
His
shaggy
eyebrows
were
knitted
fiercely
,
and
yet
somehow
he
did
not
seem
fierce
at
all
.
He
put
up
his
hand
,
pushed
the
bright
hair
back
from
the
forehead
,
and
then
turned
away
and
rang
the
bell
.
