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- Теодор Драйзер
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- Американская трагедия
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- Стр. 561/598
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"
No
letter
.
"
The
voice
was
very
strained
,
very
tense
,
very
miserable
,
and
after
this
,
silence
.
A
moment
later
,
from
another
cell
farther
off
,
a
voice
from
the
lowest
hell
to
which
a
soul
can
descend
--
complete
and
unutterable
despair
--
"
Oh
,
my
God
!
Oh
,
my
God
!
Oh
,
my
God
!
"
And
then
from
the
tier
above
another
voice
:
"
Oh
,
Jesus
!
Is
that
farmer
going
to
begin
again
?
I
ca
n't
stand
it
.
Guard
!
Guard
!
Ca
n't
you
get
some
dope
for
that
guy
?
"
Once
more
the
voice
from
the
lowest
:
"
Oh
,
my
God
!
Oh
,
my
God
!
Oh
,
my
God
!
"
Clyde
was
up
,
his
fingers
clinched
.
His
nerves
were
as
taut
as
cords
about
to
snap
.
A
murderer
!
And
about
to
die
,
perhaps
.
Or
grieving
over
some
terrible
thing
like
his
own
fate
.
Moaning
--
as
he
in
spirit
at
least
had
so
often
moaned
there
in
Bridgeburg
.
Crying
like
that
!
God
!
And
there
must
be
others
!
And
day
after
day
and
night
after
night
more
of
this
,
no
doubt
,
until
,
maybe
--
who
could
tell
--
unless
.
But
,
oh
,
no
!
Oh
,
no
!
Not
himself
--
not
that
--
not
his
day
.
Oh
,
no
.
A
whole
year
must
elapse
before
that
could
possibly
happen
--
or
so
Jephson
had
said
.
Maybe
two
.
But
,
at
that
--
!
.
.
in
two
years
!!!
He
found
himself
stricken
with
an
ague
because
of
the
thought
that
even
in
so
brief
a
time
as
two
years
...
That
other
room
!
It
was
in
here
somewhere
too
.
This
room
was
connected
with
it
.
He
knew
that
.
There
was
a
door
.
It
led
to
that
chair
.
THAT
CHAIR
.
And
then
the
voice
again
,
as
before
,
"
Oh
,
my
God
!
Oh
,
my
God
!
"
