-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Томас Харди
-
- Возвращение на родину
-
- Стр. 349/387
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
“
It
will
perhaps
be
best
,
”
said
Clym
.
“
Thomasin
,
dry
yourself
,
and
be
as
comfortable
as
you
can
.
”
With
this
he
closed
the
door
upon
her
,
and
left
the
house
in
company
with
Captain
Vye
,
who
parted
from
him
outside
the
gate
,
taking
the
middle
path
,
which
led
to
Mistover
.
Clym
crossed
by
the
right
-
hand
track
towards
the
inn
.
Thomasin
,
being
left
alone
,
took
off
some
of
her
wet
garments
,
carried
the
baby
upstairs
to
Clym
’
s
bed
,
and
then
came
down
to
the
sitting
-
room
again
,
where
she
made
a
larger
fire
,
and
began
drying
herself
.
The
fire
soon
flared
up
the
chimney
,
giving
the
room
an
appearance
of
comfort
that
was
doubled
by
contrast
with
the
drumming
of
the
storm
without
,
which
snapped
at
the
windowpanes
and
breathed
into
the
chimney
strange
low
utterances
that
seemed
to
be
the
prologue
to
some
tragedy
.
But
the
least
part
of
Thomasin
was
in
the
house
,
for
her
heart
being
at
ease
about
the
little
girl
upstairs
she
was
mentally
following
Clym
on
his
journey
.
Having
indulged
in
this
imaginary
peregrination
for
some
considerable
interval
,
she
became
impressed
with
a
sense
of
the
intolerable
slowness
of
time
.
But
she
sat
on
.
The
moment
then
came
when
she
could
scarcely
sit
longer
,
and
it
was
like
a
satire
on
her
patience
to
remember
that
Clym
could
hardly
have
reached
the
inn
as
yet
.
At
last
she
went
to
the
baby
’
s
bedside
.
The
child
was
sleeping
soundly
;
but
her
imagination
of
possibly
disastrous
events
at
her
home
,
the
predominance
within
her
of
the
unseen
over
the
seen
,
agitated
her
beyond
endurance
.
She
could
not
refrain
from
going
down
and
opening
the
door
.
The
rain
still
continued
,
the
candlelight
falling
upon
the
nearest
drops
and
making
glistening
darts
of
them
as
they
descended
across
the
throng
of
invisible
ones
behind
.
To
plunge
into
that
medium
was
to
plunge
into
water
slightly
diluted
with
air
.
But
the
difficulty
of
returning
to
her
house
at
this
moment
made
her
all
the
more
desirous
of
doing
so
—
anything
was
better
than
suspense
.
“
I
have
come
here
well
enough
,
”
she
said
,
“
and
why
shouldn
’
t
I
go
back
again
?
It
is
a
mistake
for
me
to
be
away
.
”
She
hastily
fetched
the
infant
,
wrapped
it
up
,
cloaked
herself
as
before
,
and
shoveling
the
ashes
over
the
fire
,
to
prevent
accidents
,
went
into
the
open
air
.
Pausing
first
to
put
the
door
key
in
its
old
place
behind
the
shutter
,
she
resolutely
turned
her
face
to
the
confronting
pile
of
firmamental
darkness
beyond
the
palings
,
and
stepped
into
its
midst
.
But
Thomasin
’
s
imagination
being
so
actively
engaged
elsewhere
,
the
night
and
the
weather
had
for
her
no
terror
beyond
that
of
their
actual
discomfort
and
difficulty
.
She
was
soon
ascending
Blooms
-
End
valley
and
traversing
the
undulations
on
the
side
of
the
hill
.
The
noise
of
the
wind
over
the
heath
was
shrill
,
and
as
if
it
whistled
for
joy
at
finding
a
night
so
congenial
as
this
.
Sometimes
the
path
led
her
to
hollows
between
thickets
of
tall
and
dripping
bracken
,
dead
,
though
not
yet
prostrate
,
which
enclosed
her
like
a
pool
.
When
they
were
more
than
usually
tall
she
lifted
the
baby
to
the
top
of
her
head
,
that
it
might
be
out
of
the
reach
of
their
drenching
fronds
.
On
higher
ground
,
where
the
wind
was
brisk
and
sustained
,
the
rain
flew
in
a
level
flight
without
sensible
descent
,
so
that
it
was
beyond
all
power
to
imagine
the
remoteness
of
the
point
at
which
it
left
the
bosoms
of
the
clouds
.
Here
self
-
defence
was
impossible
,
and
individual
drops
stuck
into
her
like
the
arrows
into
Saint
Sebastian
.
She
was
enabled
to
avoid
puddles
by
the
nebulous
paleness
which
signified
their
presence
,
though
beside
anything
less
dark
than
the
heath
they
themselves
would
have
appeared
as
blackness
.
Yet
in
spite
of
all
this
Thomasin
was
not
sorry
that
she
had
started
.
To
her
there
were
not
,
as
to
Eustacia
,
demons
in
the
air
,
and
malice
in
every
bush
and
bough
.
The
drops
which
lashed
her
face
were
not
scorpions
,
but
prosy
rain
;
Egdon
in
the
mass
was
no
monster
whatever
,
but
impersonal
open
ground
.
Her
fears
of
the
place
were
rational
,
her
dislikes
of
its
worst
moods
reasonable
.
At
this
time
it
was
in
her
view
a
windy
,
wet
place
,
in
which
a
person
might
experience
much
discomfort
,
lose
the
path
without
care
,
and
possibly
catch
cold
.