Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XXVII

           Asshestoodtherehetookinwithanewintensityofvisionlittledetailsofherappearancethathiseyeshadoftencherished:thebranchingblueveinsinthebacksofherhands,thewarmshadowthatherhaircastonherear,andthecolourofthehairitself,dullblackwithatawnyunder-surface,likethewingsofcertainbirds.Hefeltittobeuselesstospeak.

           Afterawhilesheliftedherheadandsaid:“Ishallnotseeheragainbeforeshegoes.”

           Hemadenoanswer,andturningtohimsheadded:“Thatiswhyshe’sgoing,Isuppose?Becauseshelovesyouandwon’tgiveyouup?”

           Darrowwaited.Thepaltrinessofconventionaldenialwassoapparenttohimthatevenifitcouldhavedelayeddiscoveryhecouldnolongerhaveresortedtoit.Underallhisotherfearswasthedreadofdishonouringthehour.

           “Shehasgivenmeup,”hesaidatlast.

           

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