Коралина / Coraline

She grunted and passed it to her mother.

“Mm. Very modern, dear,” said Coralineʼs mother.

Coraline crept into the drawing room and tried to open the old door in the corner. It was locked once more. She supposed her mother must have locked it again. She shrugged.

Coraline went to see her father.

He had his back to the door as he typed. “Go away,” he said cheerfully as she walked in.

“Iʼm bored,” she said.

“Learn how to tap-dance,” he suggested, without turning around.

Coraline shook her head.

“Busy,” he said. “Working,” he added. He still hadnʼt turned around to look at her. “Why donʼt you go and bother Miss Spink and Miss Forcible?”

Coraline put on her coat and pulled up her hood and went out of the house. She went downstairs. She rang the door of Miss Spink and Miss ForcibleКјs flat. Coraline could hear a frenzied woofing as the Scottie dogs ran out into the hall. After a while Miss Spink opened the door.

“Oh, itʼs you, Caroline,” she said. “Angus, Hamish, Bruce, down now, luvvies. Itʼs only Caroline. Come in, dear. Would you like a cup of tea?”

The flat smelled of furniture polish and dogs.

“Yes, please,” said Coraline. Miss Spink led her into a dusty little room, which she called the parlor. On the walls were black-and-white photographs of pretty women, and theater programs in frames. Miss Forcible was sitting in one of the armchairs, knitting hard[6 - knitting hard – увлеченно вязала].

They poured Coraline a cup of tea in a little pink bone china cup, with a saucer. They gave her a dry Garibaldi biscuit to go with it.

Miss Forcible looked at Miss Spink, picked up her knitting, and took a deep breath. “Anyway, April. As I was saying: you still have to admit, thereʼs life in the old dog yet.”

“Miriam, dear, neither of us is as young as we were.”

“Madame Arcati,” replied Miss Forcible.

“Now, Miriam, we agreed,” said Miss Spink. Coraline wondered if theyʼd forgotten she was there. They werenʼt making much sense; she decided they were having an argument as old and comfortable as an armchair, the kind of argument that no one ever really wins or loses but which can go on forever, if both parties are willing.

She sipped her tea.