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One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies |были по одному центу|. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing |торгуясь и мучая| the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied |пока щеки не начинали гореть от их молчаливого осуждения в скупости, точно имела место быть раз уж приходилось так торговаться|. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down |кроме как завалиться… Слово “but” – это не только “но”. Это еще и “кроме”| on the shabby little couch and howl |завыть|. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs |Это приводит к мысли о том, что жизнь состоит из слез…|, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
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At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops |ребрышки|.
Jim was never late. Della doubled |сложила вдвое| the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white |побледнела| for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please, God, make him think I am still pretty.”
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