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- Стр. 81/81
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'
But
now
the
head
waiter
,
who
has
finished
his
own
meal
,
appears
and
frowns
;
he
takes
his
muffler
from
his
pocket
and
ostentatiously
makes
ready
to
go
.
They
must
go
;
must
put
up
the
shutters
,
most
fold
the
table-cloths
,
and
give
one
brush
with
a
wet
mop
under
the
tables
.
'
Curse
you
then
.
However
beat
and
done
with
it
all
I
am
,
I
must
haul
myself
up
,
and
find
the
particular
coat
that
belongs
to
me
;
must
push
my
arms
into
the
sleeves
;
must
muffle
myself
up
against
the
night
air
and
be
off
.
I
,
I
,
I
,
tired
as
I
am
,
spent
as
I
am
,
and
almost
worn
out
with
all
this
rubbing
of
my
nose
along
the
surfaces
of
things
,
even
I
,
an
elderly
man
who
is
getting
rather
heavy
and
dislikes
exertion
,
must
take
myself
off
and
catch
some
last
train
.
'
Again
I
see
before
me
the
usual
street
.
The
canopy
of
civilization
is
burnt
out
.
The
sky
is
dark
as
polished
whalebone
.
But
there
is
a
kindling
in
the
sky
whether
of
lamplight
or
of
dawn
.
There
is
a
stir
of
some
sort
--
sparrows
on
plane
trees
somewhere
chirping
There
is
a
sense
of
the
break
of
day
.
I
will
not
call
it
dawn
.
What
is
dawn
in
the
city
to
an
elderly
man
standing
in
the
street
looking
up
rather
dizzily
at
the
sky
?
Dawn
is
some
sort
of
whitening
of
the
sky
;
some
sort
of
renewal
.
Another
day
;
another
Friday
;
another
twentieth
of
March
,
January
,
or
September
.
Another
general
awakening
.
The
stars
draw
back
and
are
extinguished
.
The
bars
deepen
themselves
between
the
waves
.
The
film
of
mist
thickens
on
the
fields
.
A
redness
gathers
on
the
roses
,
even
on
the
pale
rose
that
hangs
by
the
bedroom
window
.
A
bird
chirps
.
Cottagers
light
their
early
candles
.
Yes
,
this
is
the
eternal
renewal
,
the
incessant
rise
and
fall
and
fall
and
rise
again
.
'
And
in
me
too
the
wave
rises
.
It
swells
;
it
arches
its
back
.
I
am
aware
once
more
of
a
new
desire
,
something
rising
beneath
me
like
the
proud
horse
whose
rider
first
spurs
and
then
pulls
him
back
.
What
enemy
do
we
now
perceive
advancing
against
us
,
you
whom
I
ride
now
,
as
we
stand
pawing
this
stretch
of
pavement
?
It
is
death
.
Death
is
the
enemy
.
It
is
death
against
whom
I
ride
with
my
spear
couched
and
my
hair
flying
back
like
a
young
man
's
,
like
Percival
's
,
when
he
galloped
in
India
.
I
strike
spurs
into
my
horse
.
Against
you
I
will
fling
myself
,
unvanquished
and
unyielding
,
O
Death
!
'
The
waves
broke
on
the
shore
.