-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Томас Харди
-
- Вдали от безумной толпы
-
- Стр. 98/383
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
Marry
Me
.
"
The
pert
injunction
was
like
those
crystal
substances
which
,
colourless
themselves
,
assume
the
tone
of
objects
about
them
.
Here
,
in
the
quiet
of
Boldwood
’
s
parlour
,
where
everything
that
was
not
grave
was
extraneous
,
and
where
the
atmosphere
was
that
of
a
Puritan
Sunday
lasting
all
the
week
,
the
letter
and
its
dictum
changed
their
tenor
from
the
thoughtlessness
of
their
origin
to
a
deep
solemnity
,
imbibed
from
their
accessories
now
.
Since
the
receipt
of
the
missive
in
the
morning
,
Boldwood
had
felt
the
symmetry
of
his
existence
to
be
slowly
getting
distorted
in
the
direction
of
an
ideal
passion
.
The
disturbance
was
as
the
first
floating
weed
to
Columbus
—
the
contemptibly
little
suggesting
possibilities
of
the
infinitely
great
.
The
letter
must
have
had
an
origin
and
a
motive
.
That
the
latter
was
of
the
smallest
magnitude
compatible
with
its
existence
at
all
,
Boldwood
,
of
course
,
did
not
know
.
And
such
an
explanation
did
not
strike
him
as
a
possibility
even
.
It
is
foreign
to
a
mystified
condition
of
mind
to
realize
of
the
mystifier
that
the
processes
of
approving
a
course
suggested
by
circumstance
,
and
of
striking
out
a
course
from
inner
impulse
,
would
look
the
same
in
the
result
.
The
vast
difference
between
starting
a
train
of
events
,
and
directing
into
a
particular
groove
a
series
already
started
,
is
rarely
apparent
to
the
person
confounded
by
the
issue
.
When
Boldwood
went
to
bed
he
placed
the
valentine
in
the
corner
of
the
looking
-
glass
.
He
was
conscious
of
its
presence
,
even
when
his
back
was
turned
upon
it
.
It
was
the
first
time
in
Boldwood
’
s
life
that
such
an
event
had
occurred
.
The
same
fascination
that
caused
him
to
think
it
an
act
which
had
a
deliberate
motive
prevented
him
from
regarding
it
as
an
impertinence
.
He
looked
again
at
the
direction
.
The
mysterious
influences
of
night
invested
the
writing
with
the
presence
of
the
unknown
writer
.
Somebody
’
s
—
some
woman
’
s
—
hand
had
travelled
softly
over
the
paper
bearing
his
name
;
her
unrevealed
eyes
had
watched
every
curve
as
she
formed
it
;
her
brain
had
seen
him
in
imagination
the
while
.
Why
should
she
have
imagined
him
?
Her
mouth
—
were
the
lips
red
or
pale
,
plump
or
creased
?
—
had
curved
itself
to
a
certain
expression
as
the
pen
went
on
—
the
corners
had
moved
with
all
their
natural
tremulousness
:
what
had
been
the
expression
?
The
vision
of
the
woman
writing
,
as
a
supplement
to
the
words
written
,
had
no
individuality
.
She
was
a
misty
shape
,
and
well
she
might
be
,
considering
that
her
original
was
at
that
moment
sound
asleep
and
oblivious
of
all
love
and
letter
-
writing
under
the
sky
.
Whenever
Boldwood
dozed
she
took
a
form
,
and
comparatively
ceased
to
be
a
vision
:
when
he
awoke
there
was
the
letter
justifying
the
dream
.
The
moon
shone
to
-
night
,
and
its
light
was
not
of
a
customary
kind
.
His
window
admitted
only
a
reflection
of
its
rays
,
and
the
pale
sheen
had
that
reversed
direction
which
snow
gives
,
coming
upward
and
lighting
up
his
ceiling
in
an
unnatural
way
,
casting
shadows
in
strange
places
,
and
putting
lights
where
shadows
had
used
to
be
.
The
substance
of
the
epistle
had
occupied
him
but
little
in
comparison
with
the
fact
of
its
arrival
.
He
suddenly
wondered
if
anything
more
might
be
found
in
the
envelope
than
what
he
had
withdrawn
.
He
jumped
out
of
bed
in
the
weird
light
,
took
the
letter
,
pulled
out
the
flimsy
sheet
,
shook
the
envelope
—
searched
it
.
Nothing
more
was
there
.
Boldwood
looked
,
as
he
had
a
hundred
times
the
preceding
day
,
at
the
insistent
red
seal
:
"
Marry
me
,
"
he
said
aloud
.
