Читать книгу My Lady Nobody - Maarten Maartens - Страница 8

Otto, alone in the dusk, looked up at the silent windows. The rest were gone to their rooms; a light glimmered here and there. The great stable-clock boomed heavily eleven long trembling strokes. “It is home,” said Otto, under his breath. But he said it aloud. He rejoiced with tumultuous delight for a moment in being able to speak to that home from a spot where the bricks and mortar could hear him. His memory strayed away to the low house with the long verandas among the spreading palms. How often had he lain back in there in his wicker lounge, his cigar a deep red spot of attraction among the insect whirl of the Indian night, while he said the word out vainly to the bats and moths and butterflies. Home. He stood and looked—looked at the mere walls till his eyes were burning with physical exhaustion. He was back again at last. He loved his mother very faithfully. He loved his father. He felt kindly towards his brother. Yet, somehow, he could not control an impression of loneliness as he turned to go up-stairs.