Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           Slimygapsandcauseways,windingamongoldwoodenpiles,withasicklysubstanceclingingtothelatter,likegreenhair,andtheragsoflastyear’shandbillsofferingrewardsfordrownedmenflutteringabovehigh-watermark,leddownthroughtheoozeandslushtotheebb-tide.TherewasastorythatoneofthepitsdugforthedeadinthetimeoftheGreatPlaguewashereabout;andablightinginfluenceseemedtohaveproceededfromitoverthewholeplace.Orelseitlookedasifithadgraduallydecomposedintothatnightmarecondition,outoftheoverflowingsofthepollutedstream.

           Asifshewereapartoftherefuseithadcastout,andlefttocorruptionanddecay,thegirlwehadfollowedstrayeddowntotheriver’sbrink,andstoodinthemidstofthisnight-picture,lonelyandstill,lookingatthewater.

           Thereweresomeboatsandbargesastrandinthemud,andtheseenabledustocomewithinafewyardsofherwithoutbeingseen.IthensignedtoMr.Peggottytoremainwherehewas,andemergedfromtheirshadetospeaktoher.Ididnotapproachhersolitaryfigurewithouttrembling;forthisgloomyendtoherdeterminedwalk,andthewayinwhichshestood,almostwithinthecavernousshadowoftheironbridge,lookingatthelightscrookedlyreflectedinthestrongtide,inspiredadreadwithinme.

           Ithinkshewastalkingtoherself.

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