Marjorie
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Оглавление
McCarthy Justin Huntly. Marjorie
CHAPTER I. MY APOLOGY
CHAPTER II. LANCELOT AMBER
CHAPTER III. THE ALEHOUSE BY THE RIVER
CHAPTER IV. A MAID CALLED BARBARA
CHAPTER V. LANCELOT LEAVES
CHAPTER VI. THE GENTLEMAN IN BLUE
CHAPTER VII. CAPTAIN MARMADUKE’S PLAN
CHAPTER VIII. THE COMPANY AT THE NOBLE ROSE
CHAPTER IX. THE TALK IN THE DOLPHIN
CHAPTER X. SHE COMES DOWN THE STAIRS
CHAPTER XI. A FEAST OF THE GODS
CHAPTER XII. MR. DAVIES’S GIFTS
CHAPTER XIII. TO THE SEA
CHAPTER XIV. THE SEA LIFE
CHAPTER XV. UTOPIA HO!
CHAPTER XVI. I MAKE A DISCOVERY
CHAPTER XVII. A VISITATION
CHAPTER XVIII. THE NIGHT AND MORNING
CHAPTER XIX. HOW SOME OF US GOT TO THE ISLAND
CHAPTER XX. A BAD NIGHT
CHAPTER XXI. RAFTS
CHAPTER XXII. WE LOSE CORNELYS JENSEN
CHAPTER XXIII. WE GET TO THE ISLAND
CHAPTER XXIV. FAIR ISLAND
CHAPTER XXV. THE STORY FROM THE SEA
CHAPTER XXVI. THE BUSINESS BEGINS
CHAPTER XXVII. AN ILL TALE
CHAPTER XXVIII. WE DEFY JENSEN
CHAPTER XXIX. THE ATTACK AT LAST
CHAPTER XXX. OUR FLAG COMES DOWN
CHAPTER XXXI. A PIECE OF DIPLOMACY
CHAPTER XXXII. THE SEA GIVES UP ITS QUICK
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LAST OF THE SHIP
Отрывок из книги
Mr. Davies was a wisp of a man, with a taste for snuff and for snuff-coloured garments, and for books in snuffy bindings. His book-shop in Cliff Street was a dingy place enough, with a smell of leather and paste about it, and if you stirred a book you brought enough snuffy dust into the air to make you sneeze for ten minutes. But his own room, which was above the shop, was blithe enough, and it was there I had my lessons. Mr. Davies kept a piping bullfinch in it, and a linnet, and there was a little window garden on the sill, where tulips bloomed in their season, and under a glass case there was a plaster model of the Arch of Titus in Rome, of which he was exceedingly proud, and which I thought very pretty, and at one time longed to have.
Mr. Davies was a smooth and decent scholar, and when he was dreamy he would shove his scratch back from his forehead and shut his eyes and recite Homer or Virgil by the page together, while Lancelot and I listened open-mouthed, and I wondered what pleasure he got out of all that rigmarole. The heroes of Homer and of Virgil seemed to me very bloodless, boneless creatures after my kings and wizards out of Mr. Galland’s book; even Ulysses, who was a thrifty, shifty fellow enough, with some touch of the sea-captain in him, was not a patch upon my hero, Sindbad of Bagdad, from whose tale I believe the Greek fellow stole half his fancies, and those the better half.
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I need hardly say that my association with the Skull and Spectacles greatly increased in me my longing for the adventurous life. The men who frequented the inn had one and all the most marvellous tales to tell. Their tales were not always commendable; they were tales of pirates, of buccaneers, of fortunes made in evil wise and spent in evil fashion. But it was not so much the particulars as the generalities of their talk that delighted me. I loved to hear of islands where the cocoa trees grew, and where parrots of every hue under heaven squealed and screamed in the tropic heat; where girls as graceful as goddesses and as yellow as guineas wore robes of flaming feathers and sang lullabies in soft, impossible tongues; lands of coral and ivory and all the glories of the earth, where life was full of golden possibilities and a world away from the drab respectability of a mercer’s life in grey Sendennis.
I grew hungrier and thirstier for travel day after day. I had heard of seamen in a shipwrecked craft suffering agonies of thirst and being taunted by the fields of water all about them, to drink of which was madness and death. I felt somewhat as if I were in like case, for there I lived always in the neighbourhood, always in the companionship of the sea and of seafaring folk, and yet I was doomed to dwell at home and dance attendance upon the tinkling of the shop bell. But my word was my word all the same, and my love for my mother, I am glad to think, was greater after all than my longing to see far lands.
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