Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

IV

           

           Thissuggestionproducedimmediaterelief,andshegaveanenergeticdabattheink-bottle;butafteranotherintervalofuncertainscratchingshepausedagain.“Oh,it’sfearful!Idon’tknowwhatonearthtosay.Iwouldn’tfortheworldhavethemknowhowbeastlyMrs.Murrett’sbeen.”

           Darrowdidnotthinkitnecessarytoanswer.Itwasnobusinessofhis,afterall.Helitacigarandleanedbackinhisseat,lettinghiseyestaketheirfillofindolentpleasure.Inthethroesofinventionshehadpushedbackherhat,looseningthestraylockwhichhadinvitedhistouchthenightbefore.Afterlookingatitforawhilehestoodupandwanderedtothewindow.

           Behindhimheheardherpenscrapeon.

           “Idon’twanttoworrythem—I’msocertainthey’vegotbothersoftheirown.”Thefalteringscratchesceasedagain.“IwishIweren’tsuchanidiotaboutwriting:allthewordsgetfrightenedandscurryawaywhenItrytocatchthem.”Heglancedbackatherwithasmileasshebentabovehertasklikeaschool-girlstrugglingwitha“composition.”Herflushedcheekandfrowningbrowshowedthatherdifficultywasgenuineandnotanartlessdevicetodrawhimtoherside.Shewasreallypowerlesstoputherthoughtsinwriting,andtheinabilityseemedcharacteristicofherquickimpressionablemind,andoftheincessantcome-and-goofhersensations.HethoughtofAnnaLeath’sletters,orratherofthefewhehadreceived,yearsago,fromthegirlwhohadbeenAnnaSummers.

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