Поворот винта

           NoeveningIhadpassedatBlyhadtheportentousqualityofthisone;inspiteofwhich—andinspitealsoofthedeeperdepthsofconsternationthathadopenedbeneathmyfeet—therewasliterally,intheebbingactual,anextraordinarilysweetsadness.OnreachingthehouseIhadneversomuchaslookedfortheboy;IhadsimplygonestraighttomyroomtochangewhatIwaswearingandtotakein,ataglance,muchmaterialtestimonytoFlora’srupture.Herlittlebelongingshadallbeenremoved.Whenlater,bytheschoolroomfire,Iwasservedwithteabytheusualmaid,Iindulged,onthearticleofmyotherpupil,innoinquirywhatever.Hehadhisfreedomnow—hemighthaveittotheend!Well,hedidhaveit;anditconsisted—inpartatleast—ofhiscominginatabouteighto’clockandsittingdownwithmeinsilence.OntheremovaloftheteathingsIhadblownoutthecandlesanddrawnmychaircloser:IwasconsciousofamortalcoldnessandfeltasifIshouldneveragainbewarm.So,whenheappeared,Iwassittingintheglowwithmythoughts.Hepausedamomentbythedoorasiftolookatme;then—asiftosharethem—cametotheothersideofthehearthandsankintoachair.Wesatthereinabsolutestillness;yethewanted,Ifelt,tobewithme.