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Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer
Capítulo 3, Página 3
“Well,
Sid
don’t
torment
a
body
the
way
you
do.
You’d
be
always
into
that
sugar
if
I
warn’t
watching
you.”
Presently
she
stepped
into
the
kitchen,
and
Sid,
happy
in
his
immunity,
reached
for
the
sugar-bowl—a
sort
of
glorying
over
Tom
which
was
wellnigh
unbearable.
But
Sid’s
fingers
slipped
and
the
bowl
dropped
and
broke.
Tom
was
in
ecstasies.
In
such
ecstasies
that
he
even
controlled
his
tongue
and
was
silent.
He
said
to
himself
that
he
would
not
speak
a
word,
even
when
his
aunt
came
in,
but
would
sit
perfectly
still
till
she
asked
who
did
the
mischief;
and
then
he
would
tell,
and
there
would
be
nothing
so
good
in
the
world
as
to
see
that
pet
model
“catch
it.”
He
was
so
brimful
of
exultation
that
he
could
hardly
hold
himself
when
the
old
lady
came
back
and
stood
above
the
wreck
discharging
lightnings
of
wrath
from
over
her
spectacles.
He
said
to
himself,
“Now
it’s
coming!”
And
the
next
instant
he
was
sprawling
on
the
floor!
The
potent
palm
was
uplifted
to
strike
again
when
Tom
cried
out:
“Hold
on,
now,
what
’er
you
belting
me
for?—Sid
broke
it!”
Aunt
Polly
paused,
perplexed,
and
Tom
looked
for
healing
pity.
But
when
she
got
her
tongue
again,
she
only
said:
“Umf!
Well,
you
didn’t
get
a
lick
amiss,
I
reckon.
You
been
into
some
other
audacious
mischief
when
I
wasn’t
around,
like
enough.”
Then
her
conscience
reproached
her,
and
she
yearned
to
say
something
kind
and
loving;
but
she
judged
that
this
would
be
construed
into
a
confession
that
she
had
been
in
the
wrong,
and
discipline
forbade
that.
So
she
kept
silence,
and
went
about
her
affairs
with
a
troubled
heart.
Tom
sulked
in
a
corner
and
exalted
his
woes.
He
knew
that
in
her
heart
his
aunt
was
on
her
knees
to
him,
and
he
was
morosely
gratified
by
the
consciousness
of
it.
He
would
hang
out
no
signals,
he
would
take
notice
of
none.
He
knew
that
a
yearning
glance
fell
upon
him,
now
and
then,
through
a
film
of
tears,
but
he
refused
recognition
of
it.
He
pictured
himself
lying
sick
unto
death
and
his
aunt
bending
over
him
beseeching
one
little
forgiving
word,
but
he
would
turn
his
face
to
the
wall,
and
die
with
that
word
unsaid.
Ah,
how
would
she
feel
then?
And
he
pictured
himself
brought
home
from
the
river,
dead,
with
his
curls
all
wet,
and
his
sore
heart
at
rest.
How
she
would
throw
herself
upon
him,
and
how
her
tears
would
fall
like
rain,
and
her
lips
pray
God
to
give
her
back
her
boy
and
she
would
never,
never
abuse
him
any
more!
But
he
would
lie
there
cold
and
white
and
make
no
sign—a
poor
little
sufferer,
whose
griefs
were
at
an
end.
He
so
worked
upon
his
feelings
with
the
pathos
of
these
dreams,
that
he
had
to
keep
swallowing,
he
was
so
like
to
choke;
and
his
eyes
swam
in
a
blur
of
water,
which
overflowed
when
he
winked,
and
ran
down
and
trickled
from
the
end
of
his
nose.
And
such
a
luxury
to
him
was
this
petting
of
his
sorrows,
that
he
could
not
bear
to
have
any
worldly
cheeriness
or
any
grating
delight
intrude
upon
it;
it
was
too
sacred
for
such
contact;
and
so,
presently,
when
his
cousin
Mary
danced
in,
all
alive
with
the
joy
of
seeing
home
again
after
an
age-long
visit
of
one
week
to
the
country,
he
got
up
and
moved
in
clouds
and
darkness
out
at
one
door
as
she
brought
song
and
sunshine
in
at
the
other.
He
wandered
far
from
the
accustomed
haunts
of
boys,
and
sought
desolate
places
that
were
in
harmony
with
his
spirit.
A
log
raft
in
the
river
invited
him,
and
he
seated
himself
on
its
outer
edge
and
contemplated
the
dreary
vastness
of
the
stream,
wishing,
the
while,
that
he
could
only
be
drowned,
all
at
once
and
unconsciously,
without
undergoing
the
uncomfortable
routine
devised
by
nature.
Then
he
thought
of
his
flower.
He
got
it
out,
rumpled
and
wilted,
and
it
mightily
increased
his
dismal
felicity.
He
wondered
if
she
would
pity
him
if
she
knew?
Would
she
cry,
and
wish
that
she
had
a
right
to
put
her
arms
around
his
neck
and
comfort
him?
Or
would
she
turn
coldly
away
like
all
the
hollow
world?
This
picture
brought
such
an
agony
of
pleasurable
suffering
that
he
worked
it
over
and
over
again
in
his
mind
and
set
it
up
in
new
and
varied
lights,
till
he
wore
it
threadbare.
At
last
he
rose
up
sighing
and
departed
in
the
darkness.
About
half-past
nine
or
ten
o’clock
he
came
along
the
deserted
street
to
where
the
Adored
Unknown
lived;
he
paused
a
moment;
no
sound
fell
upon
his
listening
ear;
a
candle
was
casting
a
dull
glow
upon
the
curtain
of
a
second-story
window.
Was
the
sacred
presence
there?
He
climbed
the
fence,
threaded
his
stealthy
way
through
the
plants,
till
he
stood
under
that
window;
he
looked
up
at
it
long,
and
with
emotion;
then
he
laid
him
down
on
the
ground
under
it,
disposing
himself
upon
his
back,
with
his
hands
clasped
upon
his
breast
and
holding
his
poor
wilted
flower.
And
thus
he
would
die—out
in
the
cold
world,
with
no
shelter
over
his
homeless
head,
no
friendly
hand
to
wipe
the
death-damps
from
his
brow,
no
loving
face
to
bend
pityingly
over
him
when
the
great
agony
came.
And
thus
she
would
see
him
when
she
looked
out
upon
the
glad
morning,
and
oh!
would
she
drop
one
little
tear
upon
his
poor,
lifeless
form,
would
she
heave
one
little
sigh
to
see
a
bright
young
life
so
rudely
blighted,
so
untimely
cut
down?
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Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer — C1 Inglés | Cuentana