Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
Hurry
!
"
he
cried
hoarsely
.
"
I
ca
n't
stand
this
!
"
"
Come
this
way
,
then
,
Mr.
Button
.
"
He
dragged
himself
after
her
.
At
the
end
of
a
long
hall
they
reached
a
room
from
which
proceeded
a
variety
of
howls
--
indeed
,
a
room
which
,
in
later
parlance
,
would
have
been
known
as
the
"
crying-room
.
"
They
entered
.
"
Well
,
"
gasped
Mr.
Button
,
"
which
is
mine
?
"
"
There
!
"
said
the
nurse
.
Mr.
Button
's
eyes
followed
her
pointing
finger
,
and
this
is
what
he
saw
.
Wrapped
in
a
voluminous
white
blanket
,
and
partly
crammed
into
one
of
the
cribs
,
there
sat
an
old
man
apparently
about
seventy
years
of
age
.
His
sparse
hair
was
almost
white
,
and
from
his
chin
dripped
a
long
smoke-coloured
beard
,
which
waved
absurdly
back
and
forth
,
fanned
by
the
breeze
coming
in
at
the
window
.
He
looked
up
at
Mr.
Button
with
dim
,
faded
eyes
in
which
lurked
a
puzzled
question
.
"
Am
I
mad
?
"
thundered
Mr.
Button
,
his
terror
resolving
into
rage
.
"
Is
this
some
ghastly
hospital
joke
?
"
It
does
n't
seem
like
a
joke
to
us
,
"
replied
the
nurse
severely
.
"
And
I
do
n't
know
whether
you
're
mad
or
not
--
but
that
is
most
certainly
your
child
.
"
The
cool
perspiration
redoubled
on
Mr.
Button
's
forehead
.
He
closed
his
eyes
,
and
then
,
opening
them
,
looked
again
.
There
was
no
mistake
--
he
was
gazing
at
a
man
of
threescore
and
ten
--
a
baby
of
threescore
and
ten
,
a
baby
whose
feet
hung
over
the
sides
of
the
crib
in
which
it
was
reposing
.
The
old
man
looked
placidly
from
one
to
the
other
for
a
moment
,
and
then
suddenly
spoke
in
a
cracked
and
ancient
voice
.
"
Are
you
my
father
?
"
he
demanded
.
