The Wings of the Dove
51 vote
✒ Author | Henry James |
📖 Pages | 1080 |
⏰ Reading time | 32 hours 30 minutes |
💡 Originally published | 1902 |
🌏 Original language | English |
📌 Type | Novels |
Table of contents
Expand
BOOK FIRST | 1 |
I | 1 |
II | 37 |
BOOK SECOND | 72 |
III | 72 |
IV | 118 |
BOOK THIRD | 160 |
V | 160 |
VI | 199 |
BOOK FOURTH | 222 |
VII | 222 |
VIII | 257 |
IX | 283 |
BOOK FIFTH | 315 |
X | 315 |
XI | 331 |
XII | 352 |
XIII | 379 |
XIV | 402 |
XV | 422 |
XVI | 443 |
BOOK SIXTH | 470 |
I | 471 |
II | 492 |
III | 515 |
IV | 541 |
V | 577 |
BOOK SEVENTH | 619 |
I | 619 |
II | 653 |
III | 670 |
IV | 693 |
BOOK EIGHTH | 726 |
I | 726 |
II | 752 |
III | 776 |
BOOK NINTH | 822 |
I | 822 |
II | 849 |
III | 879 |
IV | 914 |
BOOK TENTH | 940 |
I | 940 |
II | 971 |
III | 999 |
IV | 1017 |
V | 1037 |
Work in other languages
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BOOK FIRST
THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
I
She waited, Kate Croy, for her father to come in, but he kept her unconscionably, and there were moments at which she showed herself, in the glass over the mantel, a face positively pale with the irritation that had brought her to the point of going away without sight of him.
It was at this point, however, that she remained; changing her place, moving from the shabby sofa to the armchair upholstered in a glazed cloth that gave at once — she had tried it — the sense of the slippery and of the sticky.
She had looked at the sallow prints on the walls and at the lonely magazine, a year old, that combined, with a small lamp in coloured glass and a knitted white centre-piece wanting in freshness, to enhance the effect of the purplish cloth on the principal table; she had above all, from time to time, taken a brief stand on the small balcony to which the pair of long windows gave access.
The vulgar little street, in this view, offered scant relief from the vulgar little room; its main office was to suggest to her that the narrow black house-fronts, adjusted to a standard that would have been low even for backs, constituted quite the publicity implied by such privacies.
One felt them in the room exactly as one felt the room — the hundred like it or worse — in the street.
Each time she turned in again, each time, in her impatience, she gave him up, it was to sound to a deeper depth, while she tasted the faint, flat emanation of things, the failure of fortune and of honour.
If she continued to wait it was really, in a manner, that she might not add the shame of fear, of individual, personal collapse, to all the other shames.
To feel the street, to feel the room, to feel the table-cloth and the centre-piece and the lamp, gave her a small, salutary sense, at least, of neither shirking nor lying.
This whole vision was the worst thing yet — as including, in particular, the interview for which she had prepared herself; and for what had she come but for the worst?
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