Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Micawber’s Transactions

           Iwaswithhimagooddealafterwards.’

           ‘HediedthenightbeforewewenttoCanterbury?’saidI.Myauntnodded.‘Noonecanharmhimnow,’shesaid.‘Itwasavainthreat.’

           Wedroveaway,outoftown,tothechurchyardatHornsey.‘Betterherethaninthestreets,’saidmyaunt.‘Hewasbornhere.’

           Wealighted;andfollowedtheplaincoffintoacornerIrememberwell,wheretheservicewasreadconsigningittothedust.

           ‘Six-and-thirtyyearsago,thisday,mydear,’saidmyaunt,aswewalkedbacktothechariot,‘Iwasmarried.Godforgiveusall!’Wetookourseatsinsilence;andsoshesatbesidemeforalongtime,holdingmyhand.Atlengthshesuddenlyburstintotears,andsaid:

           ‘Hewasafine-lookingmanwhenImarriedhim,Trotandhewassadlychanged!’

           Itdidnotlastlong.Afterthereliefoftears,shesoonbecamecomposed,andevencheerful.Hernerveswerealittleshaken,shesaid,orshewouldnothavegivenwaytoit.Godforgiveusall!

           SowerodebacktoherlittlecottageatHighgate,wherewefoundthefollowingshortnote,whichhadarrivedbythatmorning’spostfromMr.Micawber:

           ‘Canterbury,

           ‘Friday

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