Дэвид Копперфильд

The Beginning of a Longer Journey

           Peggotty’sgrowingrichinanewcountry,andofthewondershewoulddescribeinhisletters.WesaidnothingofEmilybyname,butdistantlyreferredtohermorethanonce.Hamwastheserenestoftheparty.

           But,Peggottytoldme,whenshelightedmetoalittlechamberwheretheCrocodilebookwaslyingreadyformeonthetable,thathealwayswasthesame.Shebelieved(shetoldme,crying)thathewasbroken-hearted;thoughhewasasfullofcourageasofsweetness,andworkedharderandbetterthananyboat-builderinanyyardinallthatpart.Thereweretimes,shesaid,ofanevening,whenhetalkedoftheiroldlifeintheboat-house;andthenhementionedEmilyasachild.But,henevermentionedherasawoman.

           IthoughtIhadreadinhisfacethathewouldliketospeaktomealone.Ithereforeresolvedtoputmyselfinhiswaynextevening,ashecamehomefromhiswork.Havingsettledthiswithmyself,Ifellasleep.Thatnight,forthefirsttimeinallthosemanynights,thecandlewastakenoutofthewindow,Mr.Peggottyswunginhisoldhammockintheoldboat,andthewindmurmuredwiththeoldsoundroundhishead.

           Allnextday,hewasoccupiedindisposingofhisfishing-boatandtackle;inpackingup,andsendingtoLondonbywaggon,suchofhislittledomesticpossessionsashethoughtwouldbeusefultohim;andinpartingwiththerest,orbestowingthemonMrs.Gummidge.Shewaswithhimallday.

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