Поворот винта
The Turn of the Screw
Iwasmuchtherethatyear—itwasabeautifulone;andwehad,inheroff-hours,somestrollsandtalksinthegarden—talksinwhichshestruckmeasawfullycleverandnice.Ohyes;don’tgrin:Ilikedherextremelyandamgladtothisdaytothinkshelikedme,too.Ifshehadn’tshewouldn’thavetoldme.Shehadnevertoldanyone.Itwasn’tsimplythatshesaidso,butthatIknewshehadn’t.Iwassure;Icouldsee.You’lleasilyjudgewhywhenyouhear.”
“Becausethethinghadbeensuchascare?”
Hecontinuedtofixme.“You’lleasilyjudge,”herepeated:“youwill.”
Ifixedhim,too.“Isee.Shewasinlove.”
Helaughedforthefirsttime.“Youareacute.Yes,shewasinlove.Thatis,shehadbeen.Thatcameout—shecouldn’ttellherstorywithoutitscomingout.Isawit,andshesawIsawit;butneitherofusspokeofit.Irememberthetimeandtheplace—thecornerofthelawn,theshadeofthegreatbeechesandthelong,hotsummerafternoon.Itwasn’tasceneforashudder;butoh—!”Hequittedthefireanddroppedbackintohischair.
“You’llreceivethepacketThursdaymorning?”Iinquired.
“Probablynottillthesecondpost.”
“Wellthen;afterdinner—”
“You’llallmeetmehere?”Helookedusroundagain.“Isn’tanybodygoing?”Itwasalmostthetoneofhope.
“Everybodywillstay!”
“Iwill”—and“Iwill!”criedtheladieswhosedeparturehadbeenfixed.Mrs.Griffin,however,expressedtheneedforalittlemorelight.
