Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           

           Allthewayhere,Ihadsupposedthatshewasgoingtosomehouse;indeed,Ihadvaguelyentertainedthehopethatthehousemightbeinsomewayassociatedwiththelostgirl.Butthatonedarkglimpseoftheriver,throughthegateway,hadinstinctivelypreparedmeforhergoingnofarther.

           Theneighbourhoodwasadrearyoneatthattime;asoppressive,sad,andsolitarybynight,asanyaboutLondon.TherewereneitherwharvesnorhousesonthemelancholywasteofroadnearthegreatblankPrison.Asluggishditchdepositeditsmudattheprisonwalls.Coarsegrassandrankweedsstraggledoverallthemarshylandinthevicinity.Inonepart,carcasesofhouses,inauspiciouslybegunandneverfinished,rottedaway.Inanother,thegroundwascumberedwithrustyironmonstersofsteam-boilers,wheels,cranks,pipes,furnaces,paddles,anchors,diving-bells,windmill-sails,andIknownotwhatstrangeobjects,accumulatedbysomespeculator,andgrovellinginthedust,underneathwhichhavingsunkintothesoiloftheirownweightinwetweathertheyhadtheappearanceofvainlytryingtohidethemselves.TheclashandglareofsundryfieryWorksupontheriver-side,arosebynighttodisturbeverythingexcepttheheavyandunbrokensmokethatpouredoutoftheirchimneys.

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