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Название книги: Girl with a Pearl Earring
Автор(ы): Tracy Chevalier
Жанр: Классическая проза
Адрес книги: http://www.6lib.ru/books/Girl-with-a-Pearl-Earring-192840.html
Tracy ChevalierGirl with a Pearl Earring
For my father
1664
My mother did not tell me they were coming. Afterwards she said she did not want me to appear nervous. I was surprised, for I thought she knew me well. Strangers would think I was calm. I did not cry as a baby. Only my mother would note the tightness along my jaw, the widening of my already wide eyes.I was chopping vegetables in the kitchen when I heard voices outside our front door—a woman’s, bright as polished brass, and a man’s, low and dark like the wood of the table I was working on. They were the kind of voices we heard rarely in our house. I could hear rich carpets in their voices, books and pearls and fur.I was glad that earlier I had scrubbed the front steps so hard.My mother’s voice—a cooking pot, a flagon—approached from the front room. They were coming to the kitchen. I pushed the leeks I had been chopping into place, then set the knife on the table, wiped my hands on my apron and pressed my lips together to
Название книги: Girl with a Pearl Earring
Автор(ы): Tracy Chevalier
Жанр: Классическая проза
Адрес книги: http://www.6lib.ru/books/Girl-with-a-Pearl-Earring-192840.html
Tracy ChevalierGirl with a Pearl Earring
For my father
1664
My mother did not tell me they were coming. Afterwards she said she did not want me to appear nervous. I was surprised, for I thought she knew me well. Strangers would think I was calm. I did not cry as a baby. Only my mother would note the tightness along my jaw, the widening of my already wide eyes.I was chopping vegetables in the kitchen when I heard voices outside our front door—a woman’s, bright as polished brass, and a man’s, low and dark like the wood of the table I was working on. They were the kind of voices we heard rarely in our house. I could hear rich carpets in their voices, books and pearls and fur.I was glad that earlier I had scrubbed the front steps so hard.My mother’s voice—a cooking pot, a flagon—approached from the front room. They were coming to the kitchen. I pushed the leeks I had been chopping into place, then set the knife on the table, wiped my hands on my apron and pressed my lips together to
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