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- Стр. 351/927
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Her
search
was
rewarded
but
she
was
too
tired
even
to
feel
pleasure
at
the
sight
of
turnips
and
cabbages
,
wilted
for
want
of
water
but
still
standing
,
and
straggling
butter
beans
and
snap
beans
,
yellow
but
edible
.
She
sat
down
in
the
furrows
and
dug
into
the
earth
with
hands
that
shook
,
filling
her
basket
slowly
.
There
would
be
a
good
meal
at
Tara
tonight
,
in
spite
of
the
lack
of
side
meat
to
boil
with
the
vegetables
.
Perhaps
some
of
the
bacon
grease
Dilcey
was
using
for
illumination
could
be
used
for
seasoning
.
She
must
remember
to
tell
Dilcey
to
use
pine
knots
and
save
the
grease
for
cooking
.
Close
to
the
back
step
of
one
cabin
,
she
found
a
short
row
of
radishes
and
hunger
assaulted
her
suddenly
.
A
spicy
,
sharp-tasting
radish
was
exactly
what
her
stomach
craved
.
Hardly
waiting
to
rub
the
dirt
off
on
her
skirt
,
she
bit
off
half
and
swallowed
it
hastily
.
It
was
old
and
coarse
and
so
peppery
that
tears
started
in
her
eyes
.
No
sooner
had
the
lump
gone
down
than
her
empty
outraged
stomach
revolted
and
she
lay
in
the
soft
dirt
and
vomited
tiredly
.
The
faint
niggery
smell
which
crept
from
the
cabin
increased
her
nausea
and
,
without
strength
to
combat
it
,
she
kept
on
retching
miserably
while
the
cabins
and
trees
revolved
swiftly
around
her
.
After
a
long
time
,
she
lay
weakly
on
her
face
,
the
earth
as
soft
and
comfortable
as
a
feather
pillow
,
and
her
mind
wandered
feebly
here
and
there
.
She
,
Scarlett
O'Hara
was
lying
behind
a
negro
cabin
,
in
the
midst
of
ruins
,
too
sick
and
too
weak
to
move
,
and
no
one
in
the
world
knew
or
cared
.
No
one
would
care
if
they
did
know
,
for
everyone
had
too
many
troubles
of
his
own
to
worry
about
her
.
And
all
this
was
happening
to
her
,
Scarlett
O'Hara
,
who
had
never
raised
her
hand
even
to
pick
up
her
discarded
stockings
from
the
floor
or
to
tie
the
laces
of
her
slippers
--
Scarlett
,
whose
little
headaches
and
tempers
had
been
coddled
and
catered
to
all
her
life
.
As
she
lay
prostrate
,
too
weak
to
fight
off
memories
and
worries
,
they
rushed
at
her
like
buzzards
waiting
for
death
.
No
longer
had
she
the
strength
to
say
:
"
I
'll
think
of
Mother
and
Pa
and
Ashley
and
all
this
ruin
later
--
Yes
,
later
when
I
can
stand
it
.
"
She
could
not
stand
it
now
,
but
she
was
thinking
of
them
whether
she
willed
it
or
not
.
The
thoughts
circled
and
swooped
above
her
,
dived
down
and
drove
tearing
claws
and
sharp
beaks
into
her
mind
.
For
a
timeless
time
,
she
lay
still
,
her
face
in
the
dirt
,
the
sun
beating
hotly
upon
her
,
remembering
things
and
people
who
were
dead
,
remembering
a
way
of
living
that
was
gone
forever
--
and
looking
upon
the
harsh
vista
of
the
dark
future
.
When
she
arose
at
last
and
saw
again
the
black
ruins
of
Twelve
Oaks
,
her
head
was
raised
high
and
something
that
was
youth
and
beauty
and
potential
tenderness
had
gone
out
of
her
face
forever
.
What
was
past
was
past
.
Those
who
were
dead
were
dead
.
The
lazy
luxury
of
the
old
days
was
gone
,
never
to
return
.
And
,
as
Scarlett
settled
the
heavy
basket
across
her
arm
,
she
had
settled
her
own
mind
and
her
own
life
.
There
was
no
going
back
and
she
was
going
forward
.
Throughout
the
South
for
fifty
years
there
would
be
bitter-eyed
women
who
looked
backward
,
to
dead
times
,
to
dead
men
,
evoking
memories
that
hurt
and
were
futile
,
bearing
poverty
with
bitter
pride
because
they
had
those
memories
.
But
Scarlett
was
never
to
look
back
.
She
gazed
at
the
blackened
stones
and
,
for
the
last
time
,
she
saw
Twelve
Oaks
rise
before
her
eyes
as
it
had
once
stood
,
rich
and
proud
,
symbol
of
a
race
and
a
way
of
living
.
Then
she
started
down
the
road
toward
Tara
,
the
heavy
basket
cutting
into
her
flesh
.
