Дублинцы
The Dead
Thehighcolourofhischeekspushedupwardseventohisforehead,whereitscattereditselfinafewformlesspatchesofpalered;andonhishairlessfacetherescintillatedrestlesslythepolishedlensesandthebrightgiltrimsoftheglasseswhichscreenedhisdelicateandrestlesseyes.Hisglossyblackhairwaspartedinthemiddleandbrushedinalongcurvebehindhisearswhereitcurledslightlybeneaththegrooveleftbyhishat.
Whenhehadflickedlustreintohisshoeshestoodupandpulledhiswaistcoatdownmoretightlyonhisplumpbody.Thenhetookacoinrapidlyfromhispocket.
“OLily,”hesaid,thrustingitintoherhands,“it’sChristmastime,isn’tit?Just...here’salittle....”
Hewalkedrapidlytowardsthedoor.
“Ono,sir!”criedthegirl,followinghim.“Really,sir,Iwouldn’ttakeit.”
“Christmas-time!Christmas-time!”saidGabriel,almosttrottingtothestairsandwavinghishandtoherindeprecation.
Thegirl,seeingthathehadgainedthestairs,calledoutafterhim:
“Well,thankyou,sir.”
Hewaitedoutsidethedrawing-roomdooruntilthewaltzshouldfinish,listeningtotheskirtsthatsweptagainstitandtotheshufflingoffeet.Hewasstilldiscomposedbythegirl’sbitterandsuddenretort.Ithadcastagloomoverhimwhichhetriedtodispelbyarranginghiscuffsandthebowsofhistie.
