Тяжёлые времена

Mr. Bounderby

           Louisalanguidlyleaneduponthewindowlookingout,withoutlookingatanything,whileyoungThomasstoodsniffingrevengefullyatthefire.AdamSmithandMalthus,twoyoungerGradgrinds,wereoutatlectureincustody;andlittleJane,aftermanufacturingagooddealofmoistpipe-clayonherfacewithslate-pencilandtears,hadfallenasleepovervulgarfractions.

           ‘It’sallrightnow,Louisa:it’sallright,youngThomas,’saidMr.Bounderby;‘youwon’tdosoanymore.I’llanswerforit’sbeingalloverwithfather.Well,Louisa,that’sworthakiss,isn’tit?’

           ‘Youcantakeone,Mr.Bounderby,’returnedLouisa,whenshehadcoldlypaused,andslowlywalkedacrosstheroom,andungraciouslyraisedhercheektowardshim,withherfaceturnedaway.

           ‘Alwaysmypet;ain’tyou,Louisa?’saidMr.Bounderby.‘Good-bye,Louisa!’

           Hewenthisway,butshestoodonthesamespot,rubbingthecheekhehadkissed,withherhandkerchief,untilitwasburningred.Shewasstilldoingthis,fiveminutesafterwards.

           ‘Whatareyouabout,Loo?’herbrothersulkilyremonstrated.‘You’llrubaholeinyourface.’

           ‘Youmaycutthepieceoutwithyourpenknifeifyoulike,Tom.Iwouldn’tcry!’

           

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