Вино из одуванчиков

           Thewhitecurtainflutteredagainstadarkcane,whichhadleanedagainstthewallneartheotherbric-a-bracformanyyears.Thecanetrembledandfelloutintoapatchofmoonlight,withasoftthud.Itsgoldferuleglittered.Itwasherhusband’soperacane.Itseemedasifhewerepointingitather,asheoftenhad,usinghissoft,sad,reasonablevoicewhenthey,uponrareoccasions,disagreed.

           "Thosechildrenareright,"hewouldhavesaid."Theystolenothingfromyou,mydear.Thesethingsdon’tbelongtoyouhere,younow.Theybelongedtoher,thatotheryou,solongago."

           Oh,thoughtMrs.Bentley.Andthen,asthoughanancientphonographrecordhadbeensethissingunderasteelneedle,sherememberedaconversationshehadoncehadwithMr.Bentley—Mr.Bentley,soprim,apinkcarnationinhiswhisk-broomedlapel,saying,"Mydear,youneverwillunderstandtime,willyou?You’realwaystryingtobethethingsyouwere,insteadofthepersonyouaretonight.Whydoyousavethoseticketstubsandtheaterprograms?They’llonlyhurtyoulater.Throwthemaway,mydear."

           ButMrs.Bentleyhadstubbornlykeptthem.

           "Itwon’twork,"Mr.Bentleycontinued,sippinghistea."Nomatterhowhardyoutrytobewhatyouoncewere,youcanonlybewhatyouarehereandnow.Timehypnotizes.Whenyou’renine,youthinkyou’vealwaysbeennineyearsoldandwillalwaysbe.Whenyou’rethirty,itseemsyou’vealwaysbeenbalancedthereonthatbrightrimofmiddlelife.Andthenwhenyouturnseventy,youarealwaysandforeverseventy.