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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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- Луна и грош
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- Стр. 129/193
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I
was
astonished
.
I
should
have
thought
he
could
not
bear
to
set
eyes
on
him
.
Stroeve
smiled
faintly
.
"
You
know
already
that
I
have
no
proper
pride
.
"
"
What
do
you
mean
by
that
?
"
He
told
me
a
singular
story
.
When
I
left
him
,
after
we
had
buried
poor
Blanche
,
Stroeve
walked
into
the
house
with
a
heavy
heart
.
Something
impelled
him
to
go
to
the
studio
,
some
obscure
desire
for
self
-
torture
,
and
yet
he
dreaded
the
anguish
that
he
foresaw
.
He
dragged
himself
up
the
stairs
;
his
feet
seemed
unwilling
to
carry
him
;
and
outside
the
door
he
lingered
for
a
long
time
,
trying
to
summon
up
courage
to
go
in
.
He
felt
horribly
sick
.
He
had
an
impulse
to
run
down
the
stairs
after
me
and
beg
me
to
go
in
with
him
;
he
had
a
feeling
that
there
was
somebody
in
the
studio
.
He
remembered
how
often
he
had
waited
for
a
minute
or
two
on
the
landing
to
get
his
breath
after
the
ascent
,
and
how
absurdly
his
impatience
to
see
Blanche
had
taken
it
away
again
.
To
see
her
was
a
delight
that
never
staled
,
and
even
though
he
had
not
been
out
an
hour
he
was
as
excited
at
the
prospect
as
if
they
had
been
parted
for
a
month
.
Suddenly
he
could
not
believe
that
she
was
dead
.
What
had
happened
could
only
be
a
dream
,
a
frightful
dream
;
and
when
he
turned
the
key
and
opened
the
door
,
he
would
see
her
bending
slightly
over
the
table
in
the
gracious
attitude
of
the
woman
in
Chardin
’
s
Benedicite
,
which
always
seemed
to
him
so
exquisite
.
Hurriedly
he
took
the
key
out
of
his
pocket
,
opened
,
and
walked
in
.
The
apartment
had
no
look
of
desertion
.
His
wife
’
s
tidiness
was
one
of
the
traits
which
had
so
much
pleased
him
;
his
own
upbringing
had
given
him
a
tender
sympathy
for
the
delight
in
orderliness
;
and
when
he
had
seen
her
instinctive
desire
to
put
each
thing
in
its
appointed
place
it
had
given
him
a
little
warm
feeling
in
his
heart
.
The
bedroom
looked
as
though
she
had
just
left
it
:
the
brushes
were
neatly
placed
on
the
toilet
-
table
,
one
on
each
side
of
the
comb
;
someone
had
smoothed
down
the
bed
on
which
she
had
spent
her
last
night
in
the
studio
;
and
her
nightdress
in
a
little
case
lay
on
the
pillow
.
It
was
impossible
to
believe
that
she
would
never
come
into
that
room
again
.
But
he
felt
thirsty
,
and
went
into
the
kitchen
to
get
himself
some
water
.
Here
,
too
,
was
order
.
On
a
rack
were
the
plates
that
she
had
used
for
dinner
on
the
night
of
her
quarrel
with
Strickland
,
and
they
had
been
carefully
washed
.
The
knives
and
forks
were
put
away
in
a
drawer
.
Under
a
cover
were
the
remains
of
a
piece
of
cheese
,
and
in
a
tin
box
was
a
crust
of
bread
.
She
had
done
her
marketing
from
day
to
day
,
buying
only
what
was
strictly
needful
,
so
that
nothing
was
left
over
from
one
day
to
the
next
.
Stroeve
knew
from
the
enquiries
made
by
the
police
that
Strickland
had
walked
out
of
the
house
immediately
after
dinner
,
and
the
fact
that
Blanche
had
washed
up
the
things
as
usual
gave
him
a
little
thrill
of
horror
.
Her
methodicalness
made
her
suicide
more
deliberate
.
Her
self
-
possession
was
frightening
.
A
sudden
pang
seized
him
,
and
his
knees
felt
so
weak
that
he
almost
fell
.
He
went
back
into
the
bedroom
and
threw
himself
on
the
bed
.
He
cried
out
her
name
.
"
Blanche
.
Blanche
.
"
The
thought
of
her
suffering
was
intolerable
.
