-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Эдит Уортон
-
- Лето
-
- Стр. 1/109
Summer
A
girl
came
out
of
lawyer
Royall
’
s
house
,
at
the
end
of
the
one
street
of
North
Dormer
,
and
stood
on
the
doorstep
.
It
was
the
beginning
of
a
June
afternoon
.
The
springlike
transparent
sky
shed
a
rain
of
silver
sunshine
on
the
roofs
of
the
village
,
and
on
the
pastures
and
larchwoods
surrounding
it
.
A
little
wind
moved
among
the
round
white
clouds
on
the
shoulders
of
the
hills
,
driving
their
shadows
across
the
fields
and
down
the
grassy
road
that
takes
the
name
of
street
when
it
passes
through
North
Dormer
.
The
place
lies
high
and
in
the
open
,
and
lacks
the
lavish
shade
of
the
more
protected
New
England
villages
.
The
clump
of
weeping
-
willows
about
the
duck
pond
,
and
the
Norway
spruces
in
front
of
the
Hatchard
gate
,
cast
almost
the
only
roadside
shadow
between
lawyer
Royall
’
s
house
and
the
point
where
,
at
the
other
end
of
the
village
,
the
road
rises
above
the
church
and
skirts
the
black
hemlock
wall
enclosing
the
cemetery
.
The
little
June
wind
,
frisking
down
the
street
,
shook
the
doleful
fringes
of
the
Hatchard
spruces
,
caught
the
straw
hat
of
a
young
man
just
passing
under
them
,
and
spun
it
clean
across
the
road
into
the
duck
-
pond
.
As
he
ran
to
fish
it
out
the
girl
on
lawyer
Royall
’
s
doorstep
noticed
that
he
was
a
stranger
,
that
he
wore
city
clothes
,
and
that
he
was
laughing
with
all
his
teeth
,
as
the
young
and
careless
laugh
at
such
mishaps
.
Her
heart
contracted
a
little
,
and
the
shrinking
that
sometimes
came
over
her
when
she
saw
people
with
holiday
faces
made
her
draw
back
into
the
house
and
pretend
to
look
for
the
key
that
she
knew
she
had
already
put
into
her
pocket
.
A
narrow
greenish
mirror
with
a
gilt
eagle
over
it
hung
on
the
passage
wall
,
and
she
looked
critically
at
her
reflection
,
wished
for
the
thousandth
time
that
she
had
blue
eyes
like
Annabel
Balch
,
the
girl
who
sometimes
came
from
Springfield
to
spend
a
week
with
old
Miss
Hatchard
,
straightened
the
sunburnt
hat
over
her
small
swarthy
face
,
and
turned
out
again
into
the
sunshine
.
“
How
I
hate
everything
!
”
she
murmured
.
The
young
man
had
passed
through
the
Hatchard
gate
,
and
she
had
the
street
to
herself
.
North
Dormer
is
at
all
times
an
empty
place
,
and
at
three
o
’
clock
on
a
June
afternoon
its
few
able
-
bodied
men
are
off
in
the
fields
or
woods
,
and
the
women
indoors
,
engaged
in
languid
household
drudgery
.
The
girl
walked
along
,
swinging
her
key
on
a
finger
,
and
looking
about
her
with
the
heightened
attention
produced
by
the
presence
of
a
stranger
in
a
familiar
place
.
What
,
she
wondered
,
did
North
Dormer
look
like
to
people
from
other
parts
of
the
world
?
She
herself
had
lived
there
since
the
age
of
five
,
and
had
long
supposed
it
to
be
a
place
of
some
importance
.
But
about
a
year
before
,
Mr
.
Miles
,
the
new
Episcopal
clergyman
at
Hepburn
,
who
drove
over
every
other
Sunday
—
when
the
roads
were
not
ploughed
up
by
hauling
—
to
hold
a
service
in
the
North
Dormer
church
,
had
proposed
,
in
a
fit
of
missionary
zeal
,
to
take
the
young
people
down
to
Nettleton
to
hear
an
illustrated
lecture
on
the
Holy
Land
;
and
the
dozen
girls
and
boys
who
represented
the
future
of
North
Dormer
had
been
piled
into
a
farm
-
waggon
,
driven
over
the
hills
to
Hepburn
,
put
into
a
way
-
train
and
carried
to
Nettleton
.
