He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering; these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort.
Мне не хотелось поддерживать в нем тщеславие, которое было, кстати сказать, его слабой стороной, но, в виде исключения, по некоторым причинам я была готова польстить ему.
‘My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.