-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вирджиния Вульф
-
- На маяк
-
- Стр. 22/72
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
She
turned
the
page
;
there
were
only
a
few
lines
more
,
so
that
she
would
finish
the
story
,
though
it
was
past
bed-time
.
It
was
getting
late
.
The
light
in
the
garden
told
her
that
;
and
the
whitening
of
the
flowers
and
something
grey
in
the
leaves
conspired
together
,
to
rouse
in
her
a
feeling
of
anxiety
.
What
it
was
about
she
could
not
think
at
first
.
Then
she
remembered
;
Paul
and
Minta
and
Andrew
had
not
come
back
.
She
summoned
before
her
again
the
little
group
on
the
terrace
in
front
of
the
hall
door
,
standing
looking
up
into
the
sky
.
Andrew
had
his
net
and
basket
.
That
meant
he
was
going
to
catch
crabs
and
things
That
meant
he
would
climb
out
on
to
a
rock
;
he
would
be
cut
off
.
Or
coming
back
single
file
on
one
of
those
little
paths
above
the
cliff
one
of
them
might
slip
.
He
would
roll
and
then
crash
.
It
was
growing
quite
dark
.
But
she
did
not
let
her
voice
change
in
the
least
as
she
finished
the
story
,
and
added
,
shutting
the
book
,
and
speaking
the
last
words
as
if
she
had
made
them
up
herself
,
looking
into
James
's
eyes
:
"
And
there
they
are
living
still
at
this
very
time
.
"
"
And
that
's
the
end
,
"
she
said
,
and
she
saw
in
his
eyes
,
as
the
interest
of
the
story
died
away
in
them
,
something
else
take
its
place
;
something
wondering
,
pale
,
like
the
reflection
of
a
light
,
which
at
once
made
him
gaze
and
marvel
.
Turning
,
she
looked
across
the
bay
,
and
there
,
sure
enough
,
coming
regularly
across
the
waves
first
two
quick
strokes
and
then
one
long
steady
stroke
,
was
the
light
of
the
Lighthouse
.
It
had
been
lit
.
In
a
moment
he
would
ask
her
,
"
Are
we
going
to
the
Lighthouse
?
"
And
she
would
have
to
say
,
"
No
:
not
tomorrow
;
your
father
says
not
.
"
Happily
,
Mildred
came
in
to
fetch
them
,
and
the
bustle
distracted
them
.
But
he
kept
looking
back
over
his
shoulder
as
Mildred
carried
him
out
,
and
she
was
certain
that
he
was
thinking
,
we
are
not
going
to
the
Lighthouse
tomorrow
;
and
she
thought
,
he
will
remember
that
all
his
life
.
No
,
she
thought
,
putting
together
some
of
the
pictures
he
had
cut
out
--
a
refrigerator
,
a
mowing
machine
,
a
gentleman
in
evening
dress
--
children
never
forget
.
For
this
reason
,
it
was
so
important
what
one
said
,
and
what
one
did
,
and
it
was
a
relief
when
they
went
to
bed
.
For
now
she
need
not
think
about
anybody
.
She
could
be
herself
,
by
herself
.
And
that
was
what
now
she
often
felt
the
need
of
--
to
think
;
well
,
not
even
to
think
.
To
be
silent
;
to
be
alone
.
All
the
being
and
the
doing
,
expansive
,
glittering
,
vocal
,
evaporated
;
and
one
shrunk
,
with
a
sense
of
solemnity
,
to
being
oneself
,
a
wedge-shaped
core
of
darkness
,
something
invisible
to
others
.
Although
she
continued
to
knit
,
and
sat
upright
,
it
was
thus
that
she
felt
herself
;
and
this
self
having
shed
its
attachments
was
free
for
the
strangest
adventures
.
When
life
sank
down
for
a
moment
,
the
range
of
experience
seemed
limitless
.
And
to
everybody
there
was
always
this
sense
of
unlimited
resources
,
she
supposed
;
one
after
another
,
she
,
Lily
,
Augustus
Carmichael
,
must
feel
,
our
apparitions
,
the
things
you
know
us
by
,
are
simply
childish
.
Beneath
it
is
all
dark
,
it
is
all
spreading
,
it
is
unfathomably
deep
;
but
now
and
again
we
rise
to
the
surface
and
that
is
what
you
see
us
by
.
Her
horizon
seemed
to
her
limitless
.
There
were
all
the
places
she
had
not
seen
;
the
Indian
plains
;
she
felt
herself
pushing
aside
the
thick
leather
curtain
of
a
church
in
Rome
.
This
core
of
darkness
could
go
anywhere
,
for
no
one
saw
it
.
They
could
not
stop
it
,
she
thought
,
exulting
.
There
was
freedom
,
there
was
peace
,
there
was
,
most
welcome
of
all
,
a
summoning
together
,
a
resting
on
a
platform
of
stability
.
Not
as
oneself
did
one
find
rest
ever
,
in
her
experience
(
she
accomplished
here
something
dexterous
with
her
needles
)
but
as
a
wedge
of
darkness
.
Losing
personality
,
one
lost
the
fret
,
the
hurry
,
the
stir
;
and
there
rose
to
her
lips
always
some
exclamation
of
triumph
over
life
when
things
came
together
in
this
peace
,
this
rest
,
this
eternity
;
and
pausing
there
she
looked
out
to
meet
that
stroke
of
the
Lighthouse
,
the
long
steady
stroke
,
the
last
of
the
three
,
which
was
her
stroke
,
for
watching
them
in
this
mood
always
at
this
hour
one
could
not
help
attaching
oneself
to
one
thing
especially
of
the
things
one
saw
;
and
this
thing
,
the
long
steady
stroke
,
was
her
stroke
.
Often
she
found
herself
sitting
and
looking
,
sitting
and
looking
,
with
her
work
in
her
hands
until
she
became
the
thing
she
looked
at
--
that
light
,
for
example
.
And
it
would
lift
up
on
it
some
little
phrase
or
other
which
had
been
lying
in
her
mind
like
that
--
"
Children
do
n't
forget
,
children
do
n't
forget
"
--
which
she
would
repeat
and
begin
adding
to
it
,
It
will
end
,
it
will
end
,
she
said
.
It
will
come
,
it
will
come
,
when
suddenly
she
added
,
We
are
in
the
hands
of
the
Lord
.
But
instantly
she
was
annoyed
with
herself
for
saying
that
.
Who
had
said
it
?
Not
she
;
she
had
been
trapped
into
saying
something
she
did
not
mean
.
She
looked
up
over
her
knitting
and
met
the
third
stroke
and
it
seemed
to
her
like
her
own
eyes
meeting
her
own
eyes
,
searching
as
she
alone
could
search
into
her
mind
and
her
heart
,
purifying
out
of
existence
that
lie
,
any
lie
.
She
praised
herself
in
praising
the
light
,
without
vanity
,
for
she
was
stern
,
she
was
searching
,
she
was
beautiful
like
that
light
.
It
was
odd
,
she
thought
,
how
if
one
was
alone
,
one
leant
to
inanimate
things
;
trees
,
streams
,
flowers
;
felt
they
expressed
one
;
felt
they
became
one
;
felt
they
knew
one
,
in
a
sense
were
one
;
felt
an
irrational
tenderness
thus
(
she
looked
at
that
long
steady
light
)
as
for
oneself
.
There
rose
,
and
she
looked
and
looked
with
her
needles
suspended
,
there
curled
up
off
the
floor
of
the
mind
,
rose
from
the
lake
of
one
's
being
,
a
mist
,
a
bride
to
meet
her
lover
.
What
brought
her
to
say
that
:
"
We
are
in
the
hands
of
the
Lord
?
"
she
wondered
.
The
insincerity
slipping
in
among
the
truths
roused
her
,
annoyed
her
.
She
returned
to
her
knitting
again
.
How
could
any
Lord
have
made
this
world
?
she
asked
.
With
her
mind
she
had
always
seized
the
fact
that
there
is
no
reason
,
order
,
justice
:
but
suffering
,
death
,
the
poor
.
There
was
no
treachery
too
base
for
the
world
to
commit
;
she
knew
that
.
No
happiness
lasted
;
she
knew
that
.
