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«The Wings of the Dove» in inglese

The Wings of the Dove

51 voto
✒ Autore
📖 Pagine1080
⏰ Tempo di lettura 32 ore 30 minuti
💡 Pubblicato1902
🌏 Lingua originale Inglese
📌 Tipo Romanzi

Indice del libro

Espandi

BOOK FIRST1
I1
II37
BOOK SECOND72
III72
IV118
BOOK THIRD160
V160
VI199
BOOK FOURTH222
VII222
VIII257
IX283
BOOK FIFTH315
X315
XI331
XII352
XIII379
XIV402
XV422
XVI443
BOOK SIXTH470
I471
II492
III515
IV541
V577
BOOK SEVENTH619
I619
II653
III670
IV693
BOOK EIGHTH726
I726
II752
III776
BOOK NINTH822
I822
II849
III879
IV914
BOOK TENTH940
I940
II971
III999
IV1017
V1037

The Wings of the Dove: leggi il libro in originale in inglese.

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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