Тяжёлые времена

Mr. James Harthouse

           

           ‘WhenIwasyourage,youngTom,’saidBounderby,‘Iwaspunctual,orIgotnodinner!’

           ‘Whenyouweremyage,’resumedTom,‘youhadn’tawrongbalancetogetright,andhadn’ttodressafterwards.’

           ‘Nevermindthatnow,’saidBounderby.

           ‘Well,then,’grumbledTom.‘Don’tbeginwithme.’

           ‘Mrs.Bounderby,’saidHarthouse,perfectlyhearingthisunder-strainasitwenton;‘yourbrother’sfaceisquitefamiliartome.CanIhaveseenhimabroad?Oratsomepublicschool,perhaps?’

           ‘No,’sheresumed,quiteinterested,‘hehasneverbeenabroadyet,andwaseducatedhere,athome.Tom,love,IamtellingMr.Harthousethatheneversawyouabroad.’

           ‘Nosuchluck,sir,’saidTom.

           Therewaslittleenoughinhimtobrightenherface,forhewasasullenyoungfellow,andungraciousinhismannereventoher.Somuchthegreatermusthavebeenthesolitudeofherheart,andherneedofsomeoneonwhomtobestowit.‘Somuchthemoreisthiswhelptheonlycreatureshehasevercaredfor,’thoughtMr.JamesHarthouse,turningitoverandover.‘Somuchthemore.Somuchthemore.’

           Bothinhissister’spresence,andaftershehadlefttheroom,thewhelptooknopainstohidehiscontemptforMr.Bounderby,wheneverhecouldindulgeitwithouttheobservationofthatindependentman,bymakingwryfaces,orshuttingoneeye.Withoutrespondingtothesetelegraphiccommunications,Mr.Harthouseencouragedhimmuchinthecourseoftheevening,andshowedanunusuallikingforhim

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