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- Генри Джеймс
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- Стр. 62/93
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I
was
silent
awhile
;
we
looked
at
each
other
.
"
Then
what
am
I
to
tell
him
?
"
"
You
need
n't
tell
him
anything
.
I
'll
tell
him
.
"
I
measured
this
.
"
Do
you
mean
you
'll
write
--
?
"
Remembering
she
could
n't
,
I
caught
myself
up
.
"
How
do
you
communicate
?
"
"
I
tell
the
bailiff
.
He
writes
.
"
"
And
should
you
like
him
to
write
our
story
?
"
My
question
had
a
sarcastic
force
that
I
had
not
fully
intended
,
and
it
made
her
,
after
a
moment
,
inconsequently
break
down
.
The
tears
were
again
in
her
eyes
.
"
Ah
,
miss
,
you
write
!
"
"
Well
--
tonight
,
"
I
at
last
answered
;
and
on
this
we
separated
.
I
went
so
far
,
in
the
evening
,
as
to
make
a
beginning
.
The
weather
had
changed
back
,
a
great
wind
was
abroad
,
and
beneath
the
lamp
,
in
my
room
,
with
Flora
at
peace
beside
me
,
I
sat
for
a
long
time
before
a
blank
sheet
of
paper
and
listened
to
the
lash
of
the
rain
and
the
batter
of
the
gusts
.
Finally
I
went
out
,
taking
a
candle
;
I
crossed
the
passage
and
listened
a
minute
at
Miles
's
door
.
What
,
under
my
endless
obsession
,
I
had
been
impelled
to
listen
for
was
some
betrayal
of
his
not
being
at
rest
,
and
I
presently
caught
one
,
but
not
in
the
form
I
had
expected
.
His
voice
tinkled
out
.
"
I
say
,
you
there
--
come
in
.
"
It
was
a
gaiety
in
the
gloom
!
I
went
in
with
my
light
and
found
him
,
in
bed
,
very
wide
awake
,
but
very
much
at
his
ease
.
"
Well
,
what
are
you
up
to
?
"
he
asked
with
a
grace
of
sociability
in
which
it
occurred
to
me
that
Mrs.
Grose
,
had
she
been
present
,
might
have
looked
in
vain
for
proof
that
anything
was
"
out
.
"
I
stood
over
him
with
my
candle
.
"
How
did
you
know
I
was
there
?
"
