Молчаливая ночь [with w_cat] полностью

Данная книга сделана из двух: "Silent Night" и "Молчаливая ночь", автор Кларк Мэри.

Я старался соотнести по смыслу английский текст с его переводом, часто переводчик вводит в текст "отсебятину", но ведь это не "подстрочник", цель переводчика донести смысл...

Но отсутствие «разжеванных» ответов, как мне кажется, будет лучше стимулировать мысль учащегося.

Полноценно работать с данным пособием можно на устройстве, поддерживающем гиперссылки: компьютер или различные «читалки» с сенсорным экраном, желательно со словарем.

Успехов!

W_cat.

[3] This story began when my editors, Michael V. Korda and Chuck Adams, over dinner started musing about the possibility of a suspense story set on Christmas Eve in Manhattan. I became intrigued.

[4] Many thanks for that initial discussion and all the wonderful help along the way, Michael and Chuck.

[5] My agent, Eugene Winick, and my publicist, Lisl Cade, offered constant support and help. Merci and grazie, Gene and Lisl.

[6] And finally many thanks to the readers who are kind enough to look forward to my books. I wish all of you a blessed, happy, and safe holiday season.

[7] For Joan Murchison Broad, and in memory of Col. Richard L. Broad, with love and thanks for all the marvelous times we shared.

[8] St. Christopher, patron of travelers, pray for us, and protect us from evil.

[9] It was Christmas Eve in New York City. The cab slowly made its way down Fifth Avenue. It was nearly five o’clock. The traffic was heavy and the sidewalks were jammed with last-minute Christmas shoppers, homebound office workers, and tourists anxious to glimpse the elaborately trimmed store windows and the fabled Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.

[10] It was already dark, and the sky was becoming heavy with clouds, an apparent confirmation of the forecast for a white Christmas. But the blinking lights, the sounds of carols, the ringing bells of sidewalk Santas, and the generally jolly mood of the crowd gave an appropriately festive Christmas Eve atmosphere to the famous thoroughfare.

[11] Catherine Dornan sat bolt upright in the back of the cab, her arms around the shoulders of her two small sons. By the rigidity she felt in their bodies, she knew her mother had been right. Ten-year-old Michael’s surliness and seven-year-old Brian’s silence were sure signs that both boys were intensely worried about their dad.

[12] Earlier that afternoon when she had called her mother from the hospital, still sobbing despite the fact that Spence Crowley, her husband’s old friend and doctor, assured her that Tom had come through the operation better than expected, and even suggested that the boys visit him at seven o’clock that night, her mother had spoken to her firmly: “Catherine, you’ve got to pull yourself together,” she had said. “The boys are so upset, and you’re not helping. I think it would be a good idea if you tried to divert them for a little while. Take them down to Rockefeller Center to see the tree, then out to dinner. Seeing you so worried has practically convinced them that Tom will die.”

[13] This isn’t supposed to be happening, Catherine thought. With every fiber of her being she wanted to undo the last ten days, starting with that terrible moment when the phone rang and the call came from St. Mary’s Hospital. “Catherine, can you come right over? Tom collapsed while he was making his rounds.”

[14] Her immediate impression had been that there had to be a mistake. Lean, athletic, thirty-eight-year-old men don’t collapse. And Tom always joked that pediatricians had birthright immunization to all the viruses and germs that arrived with their patients.

[15] But Tom didn’t have immunization from the leukemia that necessitated immediate removal of his grossly enlarged spleen. At the hospital they told her that he must have been ignoring warning signs for months. And I was too stupid to notice, Catherine thought as she tried to keep her lip from quivering.

[16] She glanced out the window and saw that they were passing the Plaza Hotel. Eleven years ago, on her twenty-third birthday, they’d had their wedding reception at the Plaza. Brides are supposed to be nervous, she thought. I wasn’t. I practically ran up the aisle.

[17] Ten days later they’d celebrated little Christmas in Omaha, where Tom had accepted an appointment in the prestigious pediatrics unit of the hospital. We bought that crazy artificial tree in the clearance sale, she thought, remembering how Tom had held it up and said, “Attention Kmart shoppers…”

[18] This year, the tree they’d selected so carefully was still in the garage, its branches roped together. They’d decided to come to New York for the surgery. Tom’s best friend, Spence Crowley, was now a prominent surgeon at Sloan-Kettering.

[19] Catherine winced at the thought of how upset she’d been when she was finally allowed to see Tom.