Гарри Поттер и философский камень
Letters from No One
Itstartedtorain. Greatdropsbeatontheroofofthecar. Dudleysniveled.
"It’sMonday,"hetoldhismother. "TheGreatHumberto’sontonight. Iwanttostaysomewherewithatelevision."
Monday.ThisremindedHarryofsomething. IfitwasMonday —andyoucouldusuallycountonDudleytoknowthedaystheweek,becauseoftelevision —thentomorrow,Tuesday,wasHarry’seleventhbirthday. Ofcourse,hisbirthdayswereneverexactlyfun —lastyear,theDursleyshadgivenhimacoathanger andapairofUncleVernon’soldsocks. Still,youweren’televeneveryday.
UncleVernonwasbackandhewassmiling. Hewasalsocarryingalong,thinpackage anddidn’tanswerAuntPetuniawhensheaskedwhathe’dbought.
"Foundtheperfectplace!"hesaid. "Comeon!Everyoneout!"
Itwasverycoldoutsidethecar. UncleVernonwaspointingatwhatlookedlikealargerockwayoutatsea. Perchedontopoftherockwasthemostmiserablelittleshackyoucouldimagine. Onethingwascertain,therewasnotelevisioninthere.
"Stormforecastfortonight!" saidUncleVernongleefully,clappinghishandstogether. "Andthisgentleman’skindlyagreedtolendushisboat!"
Atoothlessoldmancameamblinguptothem, pointing,witharatherwickedgrin, atanoldrowboatbobbingintheiron-graywaterbelowthem.
"I’vealreadygotussomerations," saidUncleVernon, "soallaboard!"
