Волны

           ThereonemetJinnyandHal,TomandBetty;therewehadourjokesandsharedoursecrets;andneverpartedinthedoorwaywithoutarrangingtomeetagaininsomeotherroomastheoccasion,asthetimeoftheyear,suggested.Lifeispleasant;lifeisgood.AfterMondaycomesTuesday,andWednesdayfollows.

           ’Yes,butafteratimewithadifference.Itmaybethatsomethinginthelookoftheroomonenight,inthearrangementofthechairs,suggestsit.Itseemscomfortabletosinkdownonasofainacorner,tolook,tolisten.Thenithappensthattwofiguresstandingwiththeirbackstothewindowappearagainstthebranchesofaspreadingwillow.Withashockofemotiononefeels"Therearefigureswithoutfeaturesrobedinbeauty."Inthepausethatfollowswhiletheripplesspread,thegirltowhomoneshouldbetalkingsaystoherself,"Heisold."Butsheiswrong.Itisnotage;itisthatadrophasfallen;anotherdrop.Timehasgiventhearrangementanothershake.Outwecreepfromthearchofthecurrantleaves,outintoawiderworld.Thetrueorderofthings--thisisourperpetualillusion--isnowapparent.Thusinamoment,inadrawing-room,ourlifeadjustsitselftothemajesticmarchofdayacrossthesky.

           ’Itwasforthisreasonthatinsteadofpullingonmypatent-leathershoesandfindingatolerabletie,IsoughtNeville.Isoughtmyoldestfriend,whohadknownmewhenIwasByron;whenIwasMeredith’syoungman,andalsothatheroinabookbyDostoevskywhosenameIhaveforgotten.Ifoundhimalone,reading.