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- Джон Уиндем
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- Стр. 126/223
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"
it
’
s
so
difficult
,
"
she
said
,
as
though
to
herself
.
"
If
I
could
only
see
you
.
.
.
But
then
,
of
course
,
if
I
could
.
.
.
Are
you
young
?
You
sound
young
.
"
"
I
’
m
under
thirty
,
"
I
told
her
.
"
And
very
ordinary
.
"
"
I
’
m
eighteen
.
It
was
my
birthday
—
the
day
the
comet
came
.
"
I
could
not
think
of
anything
to
say
to
that
that
would
not
seem
cruel
.
The
pause
drew
out
.
I
saw
that
she
was
clenching
her
hands
together
.
Then
she
dropped
them
to
her
sides
,
the
knuckles
quite
white
.
She
made
as
if
to
speak
,
but
did
not
.
"
What
is
it
?
"
I
asked
.
"
What
can
I
do
except
prolong
this
a
little
?
"
She
bit
her
lip
,
then
:
"
They
—
they
said
perhaps
you
were
lonely
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
thought
perhaps
if
"
—
her
voice
faltered
,
and
her
knuckles
went
a
little
whiter
still
—
"
perhaps
if
you
had
somebody
I
mean
,
somebody
here
.
.
.
you
—
you
might
not
want
to
leave
us
.
Perhaps
you
’
d
stay
with
us
?
"
"
Oh
God
,
"
I
said
softly
.
I
looked
at
her
,
standing
quite
straight
,
her
lips
trembling
slightly
.
There
should
have
been
suitors
clamoring
for
her
lightest
smile
.
She
should
have
been
happy
and
uncaring
for
a
while
—
then
happy
in
caring
.
Life
should
have
been
enchanting
to
her
,
and
love
very
sweet
.
.
.
