Дэвид Копперфильд

Our Housekeeping

           

           Ileanedmyheaduponmyhand;andfeltmoresorryanddowncast,asIsatlookingatthefire,thanIcouldhavesupposedpossiblesosoonafterthefulfilmentofmybrightesthopes.AsIsatthinking,Ihappenedtomeetmyaunt’seyes,whichwererestingonmyface.Therewasananxiousexpressioninthem,butitcleareddirectly.

           ‘Iassureyou,aunt,’saidI,‘Ihavebeenquiteunhappymyselfallnight,tothinkofDora’sbeingso.ButIhadnootherintentionthantospeaktohertenderlyandlovinglyaboutourhome-affairs.’

           Myauntnoddedencouragement.

           ‘Youmusthavepatience,Trot,’saidshe.

           ‘Ofcourse.HeavenknowsIdon’tmeantobeunreasonable,aunt!’

           ‘No,no,’saidmyaunt.‘ButLittleBlossomisaverytenderlittleblossom,andthewindmustbegentlewithher.’

           Ithankedmygoodaunt,inmyheart,forhertendernesstowardsmywife;andIwassurethatsheknewIdid.

           ‘Don’tyouthink,aunt,’saidI,aftersomefurthercontemplationofthefire,‘thatyoucouldadviseandcounselDoraalittle,forourmutualadvantage,nowandthen?’

           ‘Trot,’returnedmyaunt,withsomeemotion,‘no!Don’taskmesuchathing.’

           HertonewassoveryearnestthatIraisedmyeyesinsurprise.

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