Читать книгу The storm of London: a social rhapsody онлайн

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Lionel Somerville woke at 8 a.m. in the freshest of spirits. All the frenzy of the night before had vanished, and as he lay on his bed, smiling, he tried to think over what had happened.

“Did I not kill myself last night? Anyway, I did not succeed, or perhaps it was all a delusion! I must have been in a bad way. It is that infernal wound that troubles me; I have never been quite myself since I came home.—Well! what is the matter with this place?—Where are the curtains, the carpet?” Sitting up in his bed he stared all round. “And the blankets, sheets—oh! my shirt is gone!” And as he jumped up from the bed on to the bare floor, he stood as the Almighty had made him. He rushed to the window, saw the streets empty, the doors of all the houses closed, and no one going in or out of them. After staring out of the window he spotted but one boy coming along leisurely on his tricycle cart, the butcher’s boy no doubt; a fit of laughter seized him, followed by hilarious convulsions, as he saw the water-cart coming across the square, with its street Neptune indolently reclining on the seat.