He walked along Wimpole Street, like a motor bus on Piccadilly. The venerable ladies walking their poodles, knowing the professor and his manner of walking through the busy streets, dispersed on different sides so that they would not be blown to hell by the dogs. Immersed in his thoughts, Higgins walked past his house ten to fifteen steps before realizing it and, grumbling, returned back, entering for an ornate cast-iron wicket. He climbed the steps, having previously dropped the bunch of keys twice, hit the door joint with his shoulder, dropped his hat, soaked a closet in the East End dialect, where wax rollers with the voice of the subject of his scientific research were stored and went into the recording room, where phonographs stood on the tables, printed papers lay on the windowsills, and Each photo was a kind of storyboard of her conversation to carefully study her articulation. Higgins disgruntled, clenching his hands in his fists until the bones whitened.
-Professor, what are you doing?- asked Mrs. Pierce, stunned by the behavior of the owner of the house, putting her hand on her heart.
- Decided to carry out general cleaning. - in these words in a bag for garbage flew another frame with a photograph of Eliza.
-Did you talk to her?- I carefully tried to ask the woman with a note of hope in her voice.
- Dear Mrs. Pierce, be kind - bring another garbage bag. - persistently, but as Henry continued in nothing, although in his condition it could be noticed that he could explode at any moment, like the Yellowstone caldera. The elderly housekeeper understood this and decided not to catch the professor with her spreads anymore, retiring from the room. The fervor of the scientist did not subside. He dragged the bag, dragging it along the carpets, into other rooms, at the same time capturing other trinkets and papers that were once associated with the girl from the shelves and file cabinets. At some point, the choleric temperament of the man verse.
"In this way, you can carry out the whole house,"- Higgins grinned to himself, starting to throw things away more selectively.
Reaching his main office, he stopped at the extinct fireplace, which was finished in the English style. His look hooked on an unobtrusive oiled photo card, which lay on an etiquette textbook - Eliza was preparing for a secular rut at one time. Putting the bag on the floor, Higgins sank into a standing deep chair, considering the photo in more detail. He wouldn't have remembered her if Doolittle hadn't kept her in her book.
The facial wrinkles that lingered on his face along with the gritty look of silver eyes from the very morning were noticeably shone, and the general expression took on a pacified thoughtful look with the childish interest that happened to him when he began his work activities. He studied photography in the same way as he studied printed recordings from a phonograph. From the darkest depths of his subconscious began to float vague memories of the past moments of their joint work with Pickering on a crazy experiment - To pass off flower cockney from the East End as the duchess. The six months of daily routine did not end only on constant repeats of vowels and consonants and learning the waltz for the ball. By no means. At some point, Henry stopped hearing his housekeeper, who was behind him to ask about the need for bags, but realizing that the professor could no longer be pulled out of her thoughts, she retired, covering the doors of a spacious office. Once again, Foggy Albion was covered by a black thunderstorm cloud, which is why the light stopped flowing through the windows into the room. Everything around us seemed to be monochrome, cold and so... lonely.
Being not in the most conscious state, it seemed to him that behind his back he heard someone's familiar voice to pain...
-Professor, what are you doing?- asked Mrs. Pierce, stunned by the behavior of the owner of the house, putting her hand on her heart.
- Decided to carry out general cleaning. - in these words in a bag for garbage flew another frame with a photograph of Eliza.
-Did you talk to her?- I carefully tried to ask the woman with a note of hope in her voice.
- Dear Mrs. Pierce, be kind - bring another garbage bag. - persistently, but as Henry continued in nothing, although in his condition it could be noticed that he could explode at any moment, like the Yellowstone caldera. The elderly housekeeper understood this and decided not to catch the professor with her spreads anymore, retiring from the room. The fervor of the scientist did not subside. He dragged the bag, dragging it along the carpets, into other rooms, at the same time capturing other trinkets and papers that were once associated with the girl from the shelves and file cabinets. At some point, the choleric temperament of the man verse.
"In this way, you can carry out the whole house,"- Higgins grinned to himself, starting to throw things away more selectively.
Reaching his main office, he stopped at the extinct fireplace, which was finished in the English style. His look hooked on an unobtrusive oiled photo card, which lay on an etiquette textbook - Eliza was preparing for a secular rut at one time. Putting the bag on the floor, Higgins sank into a standing deep chair, considering the photo in more detail. He wouldn't have remembered her if Doolittle hadn't kept her in her book.
The facial wrinkles that lingered on his face along with the gritty look of silver eyes from the very morning were noticeably shone, and the general expression took on a pacified thoughtful look with the childish interest that happened to him when he began his work activities. He studied photography in the same way as he studied printed recordings from a phonograph. From the darkest depths of his subconscious began to float vague memories of the past moments of their joint work with Pickering on a crazy experiment - To pass off flower cockney from the East End as the duchess. The six months of daily routine did not end only on constant repeats of vowels and consonants and learning the waltz for the ball. By no means. At some point, Henry stopped hearing his housekeeper, who was behind him to ask about the need for bags, but realizing that the professor could no longer be pulled out of her thoughts, she retired, covering the doors of a spacious office. Once again, Foggy Albion was covered by a black thunderstorm cloud, which is why the light stopped flowing through the windows into the room. Everything around us seemed to be monochrome, cold and so... lonely.
Being not in the most conscious state, it seemed to him that behind his back he heard someone's familiar voice to pain...