Дэвид Копперфильд

Domestic

           Shelookedverypretty,andwasverymerry;butthelittlefeetthatusedtobesonimblewhentheydancedroundJip,weredullandmotionless.

           Ibegantocarryherdownstairseverymorning,andupstairseverynight.Shewouldclaspmeroundtheneckandlaugh,thewhile,asifIdiditforawager.Jipwouldbarkandcaperroundus,andgoonbefore,andlookbackonthelanding,breathingshort,toseethatwewerecoming.Myaunt,thebestandmostcheerfulofnurses,wouldtrudgeafterus,amovingmassofshawlsandpillows.Mr.Dickwouldnothaverelinquishedhispostofcandle-bearertoanyonealive.Traddleswouldbeoftenatthebottomofthestaircase,lookingon,andtakingchargeofsportivemessagesfromDoratothedearestgirlintheworld.Wemadequiteagayprocessionofit,andmychild-wifewasthegayestthere.

           But,sometimes,whenItookherup,andfeltthatshewaslighterinmyarms,adeadblankfeelingcameuponme,asifIwereapproachingtosomefrozenregionyetunseen,thatnumbedmylife.Iavoidedtherecognitionofthisfeelingbyanyname,orbyanycommuningwithmyself;untilonenight,whenitwasverystronguponme,andmyaunthadleftherwithapartingcryof‘Goodnight,LittleBlossom,’Isatdownatmydeskalone,andcriedtothink,Ohwhatafatalnameitwas,andhowtheblossomwitheredinitsbloomuponthetree!

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