Поворот винта

           Iadmiredthem,hadfanciesaboutthem,forwecouldallprofitinadegree,especiallywhentheyloomedthroughthedusk,bythegrandeuroftheiractualbattlements;yetitwasnotatsuchanelevationthatthefigureIhadsoofteninvokedseemedmostinplace.

           Itproducedinme,thisfigure,inthecleartwilight,Iremember,twodistinctgaspsofemotion,whichwere,sharply,theshockofmyfirstandthatofmysecondsurprise.Mysecondwasaviolentperceptionofthemistakeofmyfirst:themanwhometmyeyeswasnotthepersonIhadprecipitatelysupposed.Therecametomethusabewildermentofvisionofwhich,aftertheseyears,thereisnolivingviewthatIcanhopetogive.Anunknownmaninalonelyplaceisapermittedobjectoffeartoayoungwomanprivatelybred;andthefigurethatfacedmewas—afewmoresecondsassuredme—aslittleanyoneelseIknewasitwastheimagethathadbeeninmymind.IhadnotseenitinHarleyStreet—Ihadnotseenitanywhere.Theplace,moreover,inthestrangestwayintheworld,had,ontheinstant,andbytheveryfactofitsappearance,becomeasolitude.Tomeatleast,makingmystatementherewithadeliberationwithwhichIhavenevermadeit,thewholefeelingofthemomentreturns.Itwasasif,whileItookin—whatIdidtakein—alltherestofthescenehadbeenstrickenwithdeath.Icanhearagain,asIwrite,theintensehushinwhichthesoundsofeveningdropped.Therooksstoppedcawinginthegoldensky,andthefriendlyhourlost,fortheminute,allitsvoice.