Тяжёлые времена

Stephen Blackpool

           

           Itwasawetnight,andmanygroupsofyoungwomenpassedhim,withtheirshawlsdrawnovertheirbareheadsandheldcloseundertheirchinstokeeptherainout.HeknewRachaelwell,foraglanceatanyoneofthesegroupswassufficienttoshowhimthatshewasnotthere.Atlast,therewerenomoretocome;andthenheturnedaway,sayinginatoneofdisappointment,‘Why,then,ha’missedher!’

           But,hehadnotgonethelengthofthreestreets,whenhesawanotheroftheshawledfiguresinadvanceofhim,atwhichhelookedsokeenlythatperhapsitsmereshadowindistinctlyreflectedonthewetpavementifhecouldhaveseenitwithoutthefigureitselfmovingalongfromlamptolamp,brighteningandfadingasitwentwouldhavebeenenoughtotellhimwhowasthere.Makinghispaceatoncemuchquickerandmuchsofter,hedartedonuntilhewasverynearthisfigure,thenfellintohisformerwalk,andcalled‘Rachael!’

           Sheturned,beingtheninthebrightnessofalamp;andraisingherhoodalittle,showedaquietovalface,darkandratherdelicate,irradiatedbyapairofverygentleeyes,andfurthersetoffbytheperfectorderofhershiningblackhair.Itwasnotafaceinitsfirstbloom;shewasawomanfiveandthirtyyearsofage.

           ‘Ah,lad!’Tisthou?’Whenshehadsaidthis,withasmilewhichwouldhavebeenquiteexpressed,thoughnothingofherhadbeenseenbutherpleasanteyes,shereplacedherhoodagain,andtheywentontogether.

           ‘Ithoughtthouwastahindme,Rachael?’

           ‘No.

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