strizhnevan

10.01.2022 04:57

Английский язык

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i spent my second day at vera cruz as i had spent the first.
but i watched for the coming of the red-haired beggar, and as he
stood at the tables near mine i examined him with attention. i felt
certain now that i had seen him somewhere. i even felt certain that
i had known him and talked to him, but i still could recall none of
the circumstances. once more he passed my table without stopping
and when his eyes met mine i looked in them for some gleam of
recollection.nothing. i wondered if i had made a mistake. but
i could not get out of my head the impression that at some moment
he had entered into my life. i was sure now that he was either
english or american. but i was shy of addressing him. the day
wore on.
another day came, another morning, another evening. it
was sunday and the square was more crowded than ever. the tables
under the arcade were packed. as usual the red-haired beggar came
along, a terrifying figure in his silence, his rags and his pitiful
distress. he was standing in front of a table only two from mine
when i saw the policeman who at intervals tried to protect the public
from all these beggars. he gave him a blow on the back. the
beggar's thin body trembled, but he made no protest and showed no
anger; he slowly walked away.