-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Генри Джеймс
-
- Поворот винта
-
- Стр. 17/93
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Scarce
anything
in
the
whole
history
seems
to
me
so
odd
as
this
fact
that
my
real
beginning
of
fear
was
one
,
as
I
may
say
,
with
the
instinct
of
sparing
my
companion
.
On
the
spot
,
accordingly
,
in
the
pleasant
hall
and
with
her
eyes
on
me
,
I
,
for
a
reason
that
I
could
n't
then
have
phrased
,
achieved
an
inward
resolution
--
offered
a
vague
pretext
for
my
lateness
and
,
with
the
plea
of
the
beauty
of
the
night
and
of
the
heavy
dew
and
wet
feet
,
went
as
soon
as
possible
to
my
room
.
Here
it
was
another
affair
;
here
,
for
many
days
after
,
it
was
a
queer
affair
enough
.
There
were
hours
,
from
day
to
day
--
or
at
least
there
were
moments
,
snatched
even
from
clear
duties
--
when
I
had
to
shut
myself
up
to
think
.
It
was
not
so
much
yet
that
I
was
more
nervous
than
I
could
bear
to
be
as
that
I
was
remarkably
afraid
of
becoming
so
;
for
the
truth
I
had
now
to
turn
over
was
,
simply
and
clearly
,
the
truth
that
I
could
arrive
at
no
account
whatever
of
the
visitor
with
whom
I
had
been
so
inexplicably
and
yet
,
as
it
seemed
to
me
,
so
intimately
concerned
.
It
took
little
time
to
see
that
I
could
sound
without
forms
of
inquiry
and
without
exciting
remark
any
domestic
complications
.
The
shock
I
had
suffered
must
have
sharpened
all
my
senses
;
I
felt
sure
,
at
the
end
of
three
days
and
as
the
result
of
mere
closer
attention
,
that
I
had
not
been
practiced
upon
by
the
servants
nor
made
the
object
of
any
"
game
.
"
Of
whatever
it
was
that
I
knew
,
nothing
was
known
around
me
.
There
was
but
one
sane
inference
:
someone
had
taken
a
liberty
rather
gross
.
That
was
what
,
repeatedly
,
I
dipped
into
my
room
and
locked
the
door
to
say
to
myself
.
We
had
been
,
collectively
,
subject
to
an
intrusion
;
some
unscrupulous
traveler
,
curious
in
old
houses
,
had
made
his
way
in
unobserved
,
enjoyed
the
prospect
from
the
best
point
of
view
,
and
then
stolen
out
as
he
came
.
If
he
had
given
me
such
a
bold
hard
stare
,
that
was
but
a
part
of
his
indiscretion
.
The
good
thing
,
after
all
,
was
that
we
should
surely
see
no
more
of
him
.
This
was
not
so
good
a
thing
,
I
admit
,
as
not
to
leave
me
to
judge
that
what
,
essentially
,
made
nothing
else
much
signify
was
simply
my
charming
work
.
My
charming
work
was
just
my
life
with
Miles
and
Flora
,
and
through
nothing
could
I
so
like
it
as
through
feeling
that
I
could
throw
myself
into
it
in
trouble
.
The
attraction
of
my
small
charges
was
a
constant
joy
,
leading
me
to
wonder
afresh
at
the
vanity
of
my
original
fears
,
the
distaste
I
had
begun
by
entertaining
for
the
probable
gray
prose
of
my
office
.
There
was
to
be
no
gray
prose
,
it
appeared
,
and
no
long
grind
;
so
how
could
work
not
be
charming
that
presented
itself
as
daily
beauty
?
It
was
all
the
romance
of
the
nursery
and
the
poetry
of
the
schoolroom
.
I
do
n't
mean
by
this
,
of
course
,
that
we
studied
only
fiction
and
verse
;
I
mean
I
can
express
no
otherwise
the
sort
of
interest
my
companions
inspired
.
How
can
I
describe
that
except
by
saying
that
instead
of
growing
used
to
them
--
and
it
's
a
marvel
for
a
governess
:
I
call
the
sisterhood
to
witness
!
--
I
made
constant
fresh
discoveries
.
There
was
one
direction
,
assuredly
,
in
which
these
discoveries
stopped
:
deep
obscurity
continued
to
cover
the
region
of
the
boy
's
conduct
at
school
.
It
had
been
promptly
given
me
,
I
have
noted
,
to
face
that
mystery
without
a
pang
.
Perhaps
even
it
would
be
nearer
the
truth
to
say
that
--
without
a
word
--
he
himself
had
cleared
it
up
.
He
had
made
the
whole
charge
absurd
.
My
conclusion
bloomed
there
with
the
real
rose
flush
of
his
innocence
:
he
was
only
too
fine
and
fair
for
the
little
horrid
,
unclean
school-world
,
and
he
had
paid
a
price
for
it
.
I
reflected
acutely
that
the
sense
of
such
differences
,
such
superiorities
of
quality
,
always
,
on
the
part
of
the
majority
--
which
could
include
even
stupid
,
sordid
headmasters
--
turn
infallibly
to
the
vindictive
.
Both
the
children
had
a
gentleness
(
it
was
their
only
fault
,
and
it
never
made
Miles
a
muff
)
that
kept
them
--
how
shall
I
express
it
?
--
almost
impersonal
and
certainly
quite
unpunishable
.
They
were
like
the
cherubs
of
the
anecdote
,
who
had
--
morally
,
at
any
rate
--
nothing
to
whack
!
I
remember
feeling
with
Miles
in
especial
as
if
he
had
had
,
as
it
were
,
no
history
.
We
expect
of
a
small
child
a
scant
one
,
but
there
was
in
this
beautiful
little
boy
something
extraordinarily
sensitive
,
yet
extraordinarily
happy
,
that
,
more
than
in
any
creature
of
his
age
I
have
seen
,
struck
me
as
beginning
anew
each
day
.
He
had
never
for
a
second
suffered
.
I
took
this
as
a
direct
disproof
of
his
having
really
been
chastised
.
If
he
had
been
wicked
he
would
have
"
caught
"
it
,
and
I
should
have
caught
it
by
the
rebound
--
I
should
have
found
the
trace
.
I
found
nothing
at
all
,
and
he
was
therefore
an
angel
.
He
never
spoke
of
his
school
,
never
mentioned
a
comrade
or
a
master
;
and
I
,
for
my
part
,
was
quite
too
much
disgusted
to
allude
to
them
.
Of
course
I
was
under
the
spell
,
and
the
wonderful
part
is
that
,
even
at
the
time
,
I
perfectly
knew
I
was
.
But
I
gave
myself
up
to
it
;
it
was
an
antidote
to
any
pain
,
and
I
had
more
pains
than
one
.
I
was
in
receipt
in
these
days
of
disturbing
letters
from
home
,
where
things
were
not
going
well
.
But
with
my
children
,
what
things
in
the
world
mattered
?
That
was
the
question
I
used
to
put
to
my
scrappy
retirements
.
I
was
dazzled
by
their
loveliness
.
There
was
a
Sunday
--
to
get
on
--
when
it
rained
with
such
force
and
for
so
many
hours
that
there
could
be
no
procession
to
church
;
in
consequence
of
which
,
as
the
day
declined
,
I
had
arranged
with
Mrs.
Grose
that
,
should
the
evening
show
improvement
,
we
would
attend
together
the
late
service
.
The
rain
happily
stopped
,
and
I
prepared
for
our
walk
,
which
,
through
the
park
and
by
the
good
road
to
the
village
,
would
be
a
matter
of
twenty
minutes
.
Coming
downstairs
to
meet
my
colleague
in
the
hall
,
I
remembered
a
pair
of
gloves
that
had
required
three
stitches
and
that
had
received
them
--
with
a
publicity
perhaps
not
edifying
--
while
I
sat
with
the
children
at
their
tea
,
served
on
Sundays
,
by
exception
,
in
that
cold
,
clean
temple
of
mahogany
and
brass
,
the
"
grown-up
"
dining
room
.
The
gloves
had
been
dropped
there
,
and
I
turned
in
to
recover
them
.
The
day
was
gray
enough
,
but
the
afternoon
light
still
lingered
,
and
it
enabled
me
,
on
crossing
the
threshold
,
not
only
to
recognize
,
on
a
chair
near
the
wide
window
,
then
closed
,
the
articles
I
wanted
,
but
to
become
aware
of
a
person
on
the
other
side
of
the
window
and
looking
straight
in
.
One
step
into
the
room
had
sufficed
;
my
vision
was
instantaneous
;
it
was
all
there
.
The
person
looking
straight
in
was
the
person
who
had
already
appeared
to
me
.
He
appeared
thus
again
with
I
wo
n't
say
greater
distinctness
,
for
that
was
impossible
,
but
with
a
nearness
that
represented
a
forward
stride
in
our
intercourse
and
made
me
,
as
I
met
him
,
catch
my
breath
and
turn
cold
.
He
was
the
same
--
he
was
the
same
,
and
seen
,
this
time
,
as
he
had
been
seen
before
,
from
the
waist
up
,
the
window
,
though
the
dining
room
was
on
the
ground
floor
,
not
going
down
to
the
terrace
on
which
he
stood
.
His
face
was
close
to
the
glass
,
yet
the
effect
of
this
better
view
was
,
strangely
,
only
to
show
me
how
intense
the
former
had
been
.
He
remained
but
a
few
seconds
--
long
enough
to
convince
me
he
also
saw
and
recognized
;
but
it
was
as
if
I
had
been
looking
at
him
for
years
and
had
known
him
always
.
Something
,
however
,
happened
this
time
that
had
not
happened
before
;
his
stare
into
my
face
,
through
the
glass
and
across
the
room
,
was
as
deep
and
hard
as
then
,
but
it
quitted
me
for
a
moment
during
which
I
could
still
watch
it
,
see
it
fix
successively
several
other
things
.
On
the
spot
there
came
to
me
the
added
shock
of
a
certitude
that
it
was
not
for
me
he
had
come
there
.
He
had
come
for
someone
else
.
