Дэвид Копперфильд

Intelligence

           

           Whenwearrivedatthehouse,IwasdirectedtoMissDartleinthegarden,andlefttomakemypresenceknowntohermyself.Shewassittingonaseatatoneendofakindofterrace,overlookingthegreatcity.Itwasasombreevening,withaluridlightinthesky;andasIsawtheprospectscowlinginthedistance,withhereandtheresomelargerobjectstartingupintothesullenglare,Ifancieditwasnoinaptcompaniontothememoryofthisfiercewoman.

           ShesawmeasIadvanced,androseforamomenttoreceiveme.Ithoughther,then,stillmorecolourlessandthinthanwhenIhadseenherlast;theflashingeyesstillbrighter,andthescarstillplainer.

           Ourmeetingwasnotcordial.Wehadpartedangrilyonthelastoccasion;andtherewasanairofdisdainabouther,whichshetooknopainstoconceal.

           ‘Iamtoldyouwishtospeaktome,MissDartle,’saidI,standingnearher,withmyhanduponthebackoftheseat,anddeclininghergestureofinvitationtositdown.

           ‘Ifyouplease,’saidshe.‘Prayhasthisgirlbeenfound?’

           ‘No.’

           ‘Andyetshehasrunaway!’

           Isawherthinlipsworkingwhileshelookedatme,asiftheywereeagertoloadherwithreproaches.

           ‘Runaway?’Irepeated.

           ‘Yes!Fromhim,’shesaid,withalaugh.‘Ifsheisnotfound,perhapssheneverwillbefound.

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