دانلود رمان انگلیسی “فراتر از کلمات” – نسخه‌ای متفاوت از رمان غرور و تعصب

“How could you consent to such a thing?” Fitzwilliam Darcy paced the small drawing room, his hand raking through his hair. “How could you trust him?” He had ridden eight hours from London with his fury carefully assembled, certain at least of one satisfaction — that he would face Wickham directly and settle the matter as it deserved. He had been denied even that. Wickham was gone. How he had known to leave, Darcy could not determine. What he found instead was Mrs. Younge, Georgiana’s governess, standing in the hallway entirely unrepentant. When pressed, she had not dissembled. She confirmed every suspicion Darcy possessed and informed him, without apparent regret, that Mr. Wickham had quitted Ramsgate that very morning. Darcy had dismissed her on the spot. She had left without a word of protest, which told him everything he needed to know about her complicity in the affair. So there was only this: a small drawing room by the sea, his sister standing in the middle of it, and eight hours of anger with nowhere left to go. She was looking at him as though she did not know whether he had come to save her or condemn her. “Sit down,” he said. She sat. He did not. He crossed to the window and stood with his back to her. It was a bright afternoon, indecently so. Gulls moved in slow arcs above the shore. The sea went on in every direction, pale and glittering — unbothered and boundless and of no use to him whatsoever. He could not look at it for long.