Раздел VII. ОТРЫВКИ ДЛЯ САМОСТОЯТЕЛЬНОГО АНАЛИЗА

And morning brought him nothing but exhilaration. As he opened his eyes on the daylight, through the open chink at the top of his window he could see the brown moors sliding slowly past, and the chug-chug of the hitherto racing train told of its conquest of the Grampians. A clear, cold air that sparkled, greeted him as he dressed, and over breakfast he watched the brown barrenness with its background of vivid sky and dazzling snow change to pine forest - flat black slabs stuck mathematically on the hillsides like patches of woolwork - and then to birches; birches that stepped down the mountain-sides as escort for some stream, or birches that trailed their light draperies of an unbelievable new green in little woods carpeted with fine turf. And so ith a rush, as the train took heart on the down grade, to fields again - wide fields in broad straths

and little stony fields tacked to hillsides - and lochs, and rivers, and a green country side. (J.Tey)

"Well, she's a lucky devil, Mary Raymond, and if she doesn't like it, she has very poor taste." Oh, if she doesn't like it," said Grant, "she can just fib and say she does, and we'll never be a bit the wiser. All women are expert fibbers." "Ark at 'im!" said Miss Lethbridge. "Poor disillusioned creature!" "Well, isn't it true? Your social life is one long series of fibs. You are very sorry - You are not at home - You would have come, but - You wish someone would stay longer. If you aren't fibbing to your friends, you are fibbing to your maids." "I may fib to my friends," said Mrs. Redcliffe, "but I most certainly do not fib to my maids!" "Don't you?" said Grant, turning idly to look at her.(J. Tey)

It was between seven and eight o'clock on a March evening, and all over London the bars were being drawn from pit and gallery doors. Bang, thud and clank. Grim sound to preface an evening's amusement. But no last trump could have so galvanized the weary attendants of Thespis and Terpsichore standing in patient column of four before the gates of promise. Here and there, of course, there was no column. At the Irving, five people spread themselves over the two steps and sacrificed in warmth what they gained in comfort; Greek tragedy was not popular. At the Playbox there was noone; the Playbox was exclusive and ignored the existence of pits. At the Arena, which had a three weeks ballet season, there were ten persons for the gallery and a long queue for the pit. But at the Woffington both human strings tailed away apparently into infinity. Long ago a lordly official had come down the pit queue and with a gesture of his outstreched arm that seemed to guillotine hope, had said, "All after here standing room only." Having thus, with a mere contraction of his deltoid muscle, separated the sheep from the goats, he retired in Olympian state to the front of the theatre, where beyond the glass doors there was warmth and shelter. But none moved away from the long queue. (J. Tey)

Every soul in London, it seemed, was trying to crowd into the Woffington to cheer the show just once again. To see if Golly Golan had put a new gag into his triumph of foolery - Gollan, who had been rescued from a life on the road by a daring manager, and had been given his chance, and had taken it. To sun themselves yet once more in the loveliness and sparkle of Ray Markable, that comet, that two years ago had blazed out of the void into the zenith and had dimmed the known and constant stars. Ray danced like a blown leaf, and her little aloof smile had killed the fashion for dentifrice advertisements in six months. "Her indefinable charm," her critics called it, but her followers called it many extravagant things, and defined it to each other with hand-waving and facial contortions when words proved inadequate to convey the whole of her fiery quality. Now she was going to America, like all the good things, and after the last two years London without Ray Markable would be an unthinkable desert. Who would not stand for ever just to see her once more? (J. Tey)

"Chap fainted," said someone. No one moved for a moment or two. Minding one's own business in crowd today is as much an instinct of self-preservation as a chameleon's versatility. Perhaps someone would claim the chap. But noone did; and so a man with more social instinct or more self-importance than the rest moved forward to help the collapsed one. He was about to bend over the limp heap when he stopped as if stung and recoiled hastily. A woman shrieked three times, horribly; and the pushing, heaving queue froze suddenly to immobility. In the white clear light of he naked electric in the roof, the man's body, left alone by the instinctive withdrawal of the others, lay revealed in every detail. And rising slantwise from the grey tweed of his coat was a little silver thing that winked wickedly in the baleful light. It was the handle of a dagger. (J.Tey)

"And about the person who stabbed him. Anything peculiar about the stabbing?"

"No, except that the man was strong and left-handed."

"Not a woman?"

"No, it would need more strength than a woman has to drive the blade in as it has been driven. You see, there was no room for a back-sweep of the arm. The blow had to be delivered from a position of rest. Oh no, it was a man's work. And a determined man's, too."

"Can you tell me anything about the dead man himself?" asked Grant, who liked to hear a scientific opinion on any subject.

"Not much. Well nourished - prosperous, I should say."

"Intelligent?"

"Yes, very, I should think."

"What type?"

"What type of occupation, do you mean?"

"No, I can deduce that for myself. What type of - temperament, I suppose you'd call it?'

"Oh, I see." (J. Tey)

Although nearly perfect, Mr.Murchison had one little eccentricity, which he kept extremely rivate. It was a mere nothing, a thought, a whim; it seems almost unfair to mention it. The fact is he felt that nothing in the world could be nicer, than to set fire to a house and watch it blaze. What is the harm in that? Who has not had a similar bright vision at some time or other? There is no doubt about it, it would be nice, very nice indeed, absolutely delightful. But most of us are well broken in and we dismiss the idea as impracticable. Mr. Murchison found that it took root in his mind and blossomed there like a sultry flower. (J. Coolier)

"Ever do any writing?" he asked.

"Only letters," answered Anna, startled from her marking. It was obvious that Mr.Foster was disposed to talk, and Anna put down her own marking pencil. "Why? Do you?" she asked. Mr. Foster waved a pudgy hand deprecatingly at the exercise-book before him.

"Oh! I'm always at it. Had a go at pretty well everything in the writing line."

"Have you had anything published?" asked Anna with proper awe. She was glad to see that Mr.Foster looked gratified and guessed, rightly, that he had.

"One or two, little things," he admitted with a very fair show of modesty.

"How lovely!" said Anna enthusiastically. (Miss Reed)

He observed her now covertly. Interesting woman - very. So still, and yet so - alive. Alive! That was just it! Not exactly beautiful - no, you wouldn't call her beautiful, but there is a kind of calamitous magic about her that you couldn't miss... Everything about her intrigued him. In a queer intuitive way, he felt certain that she was either very happy or very unhappy - but he didn't know which, and it annoyed him not to know. Furthermore, there was the curious effect she had upon her husband. "He adored her," said Mr.Sutterthwaite to himself, "but sometimes he's - yes, afraid of her! That's very interesting! That's uncommonly interesting!" (A. Christie)

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Time passed and the light grew richer as the sun declined out of the hight of the sky. The day grew more and more deliciously ripe, swelling with unheard-of sweetness. Over its sun-flushed cheeks the tendery silence of the mill-wheel spread the softest, peachiest of blooms. Minnie sat on the parapet, waiting. Sometimes, she looked down at the sliding water, sometimes she turned her eyes towards the garden. Time flowed but she was now no more afraid of that shattering event, that thundered here, in the future. The ripe sweetness of the afternoon seemed to enter into her spirit, filling it to the brim. There was no more room for doubts, or fearful anticipations, or regrets. She was happy. Tenderly, with a tenderness she could not have expressed in words, only with the gentlest of light kisses, with fingers caressingly drawn through the ruffled hair, she thought of Hubert, her Hubert. (A. Huxley)

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