Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           Ifeltitinmysleep,asIsupposewealldofeelsuchthings.

           ‘Trot,mydear,’shesaid,whenIopenedmyeyes,‘Icouldn’tmakeupmymindtodisturbyou.Mr.Peggottyishere;shallhecomeup?’

           Irepliedyes,andhesoonappeared.

           ‘Mas’rDavy,’hesaid,whenwehadshakenhands,‘IgivEm’lyyourletter,sir,andshewritthisheer;andbeggedofmefurtoaskyoutoreadit,andifyouseenohurtin’t,tobesokindastakechargeon’t.’

           ‘Haveyoureadit?’saidI.

           Henoddedsorrowfully.Iopenedit,andreadasfollows:

           ‘Ihavegotyourmessage.Oh,whatcanIwrite,tothankyouforyourgoodandblessedkindnesstome!

           ‘Ihaveputthewordsclosetomyheart.IshallkeepthemtillIdie.Theyaresharpthorns,buttheyaresuchcomfort.Ihaveprayedoverthem,oh,Ihaveprayedsomuch.WhenIfindwhatyouare,andwhatuncleis,IthinkwhatGodmustbe,andcancrytohim.

           ‘Good-byeforever.Now,mydear,myfriend,good-byeforeverinthisworld.Inanotherworld,ifIamforgiven,Imaywakeachildandcometoyou.Allthanksandblessings.Farewell,evermore.’

           This,blottedwithtears,wastheletter.

           ‘MayItellherasyoudoen’tseenohurtin’t,andasyou’llbesokindastakechargeon’t,Mas’rDavy?’saidMr.Peggotty,whenIhadreadit.

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