Холодный дом

Quite at Home

           Jarndycepattedhimontheheadwithasmile,asifhehadbeenreallyachild,andpassingasteportwoon,andstoppingamoment,glancedattheyoungcousins.Hislookwasthoughtful,buthadabenignantexpressioninitwhichIoften(howoften!)sawagain,whichhaslongbeenengravenonmyheart.Theroominwhichtheywere,communicatingwiththatinwhichhestood,wasonlylightedbythefire.Adasatatthepiano;Richardstoodbesideher,bendingdown.Uponthewall,theirshadowsblendedtogether,surroundedbystrangeforms,notwithoutaghostlymotioncaughtfromtheunsteadyfire,thoughreflectingfrommotionlessobjects.Adatouchedthenotessosoftlyandsangsolowthatthewind,sighingawaytothedistanthills,wasasaudibleasthemusic.Themysteryofthefutureandthelittleclueaffordedtoitbythevoiceofthepresentseemedexpressedinthewholepicture.Butitisnottorecallthisfancy,wellasIrememberit,thatIrecallthescene.First,Iwasnotquiteunconsciousofthecontrastinrespectofmeaningandintentionbetweenthesilentlookdirectedthatwayandtheflowofwordsthathadprecededit.Secondly,thoughMr.Jarndyce’sglanceashewithdrewitrestedforbutamomentonme,IfeltasifinthatmomentheconfidedtomeandknewthatheconfidedtomeandthatIreceivedtheconfidencehishopethatAdaandRichardmightonedayenteronadearerrelationship.Mr.Skimpolecouldplayonthepianoandthevioloncello,andhewasacomposerhadcomposedhalfanoperaonce,butgottiredofitandplayedwhathecomposedwithtaste.

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