"Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

not yet four o'clock; he could be there by seven. Urien Lewis was always glad to see him, and he could
anticipate the interest on Lewis's face as he described Lund's visit.
Having made the decision, he resented the necessity of drinking the tea: he poured in more milk,
then swallowed it in gulps. Outside, birds had begun to sing in the sunlight, increasing his desire to be
gone. He pulled on a pair of gumboots and packed his shoes in the rucksack. Then, as an afterthought,
he went upstairs and stuffed the remainder of the letters in the sack.
He filled the goat's manger with hay. She was unwilling to let him go; she followed him to the gate
and pushed her nose into his hand, begging for affection like a dog. When he closed the gate behind him,
she placed her forefeet on the bank and watched him disappear down the lane.
He enjoyed the first hour of the walk; then the fatigue came back. It was impossible to sit down;
the ground was too wet. The thin, tough grass on the high ground held the water and squelched
underfoot. Then he looked at his watch, and remembered that the afternoon bus from Buttermere
reached Rosthwaite at a quarter past five. He covered the last mile to the main road at a jog trot, the
rucksack bumping between his shoulder blades. He reached the road at shortly after five, then sat on a
milestone to recover his breath, his body prickling with sweat. Five minutes later he sat at the front of the
bus, breathing in the smell of wet clothes and feeling the beginning of a headache. Now he was relaxed,
the depression came back again. He looked around the bus, and realized that he would always associate
its smell of leather and wet clothes with the thought of murder.
 The door at the bottom of the narrow stairs was open. The plate outside said: Urien Lewis,
Antiquarian and Bookseller.
He called, "Are you there, Hugh?"
The door above opened. A blonde girl looked out. "Hello, Damon. What are you doing here?"
Her smile made him feel better. She was wearing a blue-checked dress and looked cool.
She asked, "Haven't you been home?"
"Yes. I've come back. Where's your uncle?"
"He's upstairs, doing some cataloguing. Tea?"
"Yes, that's a marvelous idea."
"Let me help you off with that."
She went behind him, taking the weight of the sack. She said, "What on earth have you got in
here?"
"Letters. . . all kinds of letters."
"Love letters?"
"Unfortunately, no."
She glanced at him sideways as she went into the kitchen, and the look gave him a shock of
pleasure. He stared after her, trying to turn the impression into words. It seemed to him that in the course
of a few weeks she had ceased to be the schoolgirl that he could caress or tease with detachment. He
had known for years that she was fond of him, but it had not been important; she aroused in him only a
protective fondness that was intentional. Now, suddenly, she had developed new powers, powers that
came from a depth of instinct, and she was using them against him.
She came in with a cup of tea and said, "I'll tell Uncle Hugh you've arrived."
He smiled absently, taking the tea, and said, "Thank you, my love."
It was play-acting, and he knew it. Luckily, she didn't. He thought with amusement: This is what
Lawrence called the sex war. Then as he thought about the instinctive assurance in her glance, joy rose in
him from some deep spring. At the same time he became aware that his reason for coming back to
Keswick had something to do with her as well as with her uncle. He deliberately refrained from looking
up as she came back into the room.
"Uncle's nearly finished cataloguing. He says why don't you take your tea up there."
"Thanks. I will. I'm already feeling better."
She said, "Aren't you going to tell me what it's about?"
"Come up and listen. It's not a secret."