"Madeline L' Engle - A Swiftly Tilting Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Engle Madeleine)

had explained to Meg at their first meeting, a biological sport, totally
different from the rest of his family, and when he received his M.D./Ph.D.
they
took that as a sign that he had joined the ranks of the enemy. And Mrs.
O'Keefe
shared the attitude of many of the villagers that Mrs. Murry's two earned
Ph.D.s, and her experiments in the stone lab which adjoined the kitchen, did
not
constitute proper work. Because she had achieved considerable recognition,
her
puttering was tolerated, but it was not work, in the sense that keeping a
clean
house was work, or having a nine-to-five job in factory or office was work.
6
-How could that woman have produced my husband? Meg wondered for the
hundredth
time, and imaged Calvin's alert expression and open smile. -Mother says
there's
more to her than meets the eye, but I haven't seen it yet. All I know is that
she doesn't like me, or any of the family. I don't know why she came for
dinner.
I wish she hadn't.
The twins had automatically taken over their old job of setting the table.
Sandy
paused, a handful of forks in his hand, to grin at their mother.
"Thanksgiving
dinner is practically the only meal Mother cooks in the kitchen-"
"-instead of out in the lab on her Bunsen burner," Dennys concluded.
Sandy patted her shoulder affectionately. "Not that we're criticizing,
Mother."
. "After all, those Bunsen-burner stews did lead directly to the Nobel Prize.
We're really very proud of you, Mother, although you and Father give us a
heck
of a lot to live up to."
"Keeps our standards high." Sandy took a pile of plates from the kitchen
dresser, counted them, and set them in front of the big platter which would
hold
the turkey.
-Home, Meg thought comfortably, and regarded her parents and brothers with
affectionate gratitude. They had put up with her all through her prickly
adolescence, and she still did not feel very grown up. It seemed only a few
months ago that she had had braces on her teeth, crooked spectacles that
constantly slipped down her nose, unruly mouse-brown hair, and a wistful
certainty that she would never grow up to be a beautiful and self-confident
77
woman like her mother. Her inner vision of herself was still more the
adolescent
Meg than the attractive young woman she had become. The braces were gone, the
spectacles replaced by contact lenses, and though her chestnut hair might not
quite rival her mother's rich auburn, it was thick and lustrous and became