): the whisper, the moaning, the click had all stopped (шепот, стон, позвякивание все прекратились). Then he was afraid that he had lost the door (тогда он был испуган, что он потерял дверь;
to lose) and felt wildly for the knob (и пощупал дико =
нервно, быстро в поисках дверной ручки). He was far less afraid of the police than he was of the darkness (он был гораздо меньше боялся полиции, чем темноты), and he had no idea of the noise he was making (и он не имел представления о шуме, который производил).
Paine heard it from the bottom of the stairs and came back (Пейн услышал его /шум/ с нижней части лестницы и вернулся; bottom — низ, нижняя часть). He switched on the landing light (он включил на лестничной клетке свет; to switch on — включать), and the glow under the door gave Martins his direction (и отблеск под дверью дал = указал Мартинсу его направление). He opened the door (он открыл дверь) and was smiling weakly (и слабо улыбался) as Paine turned back to take a second look at the room (когда Пейн повернулся назад, чтобы второй раз посмотреть на комнату). The eyes of a parrot chained to a perch stared beadily back at him (глаза попугая, прикованного /цепочкой/ к жердочке, уставились, как бусины, назад на него = встретили его взгляд; bead — бусина). Paine said respectfully (Пейн сказал уважительно), "We were looking for you, sir (мы искали вас, сэр). Colonel Calloway wants a word with you (полковник Кэллоуэй хочет слово = поговорить с вами)."
"I lost my way (я заблудился: «потерял мой путь»; to lose — терять)," Martins said.
"Yes, sir. We thought that was what had happened (мы подумали, что случилось именно это; to think — думать)."
collect [kq'lekt], delight [dI'laIt], compliment ['kOmplImqnt], curtsey ['kq:tsI], distinct [dIs'tINkt], irritation ["IrI'teIS(q)n], complacent [kqm'pleIs(q)nt], speculative ['spekjulqtIv], argument ['Rgjumqnt], relic ['relIk], lavatory ['lxvqt(q)rI], impede [Im'pi:d], breath [breT], continuous [kqn'tInjuqs], monologue ['mOn(q)lOg]
Martins took his pen and wrote: "From B. Dexter, author of The Lone Rider of Santa Fé," and the young man read the sentence and blotted it with a puzzled expression. As Martins sat down and started signing Benjamin Dexter's title pages, he could see in a mirror the young man showing the inscription to Crabbin. Crabbin smiled weakly and stroked his chin, up and down, up and down. "B. Dexter, B. Dexter, B. Dexter." Martins wrote rapidly—it was not after all a lie. One by one the books were collected by their owners: little half sentences of delight and compliment were dropped like curtseys—was this what it was to be a writer? Martins began to feel distinct irritation towards Benjamin Dexter. The complacent tiring pompous ass, he thought, signing the twenty-seventh copy of