Дэвид Копперфильд

The New Wound, and the Old

           Atintervals,alongthetown,andevenalittlewayoutupontheroad,Isawmore:butatlengthonlythebleaknightandtheopencountrywerearoundme,andtheashesofmyyouthfulfriendship.

           Uponamellowautumnday,aboutnoon,whenthegroundwasperfumedbyfallenleaves,andmanymore,inbeautifultintsofyellow,red,andbrown,yethunguponthetrees,throughwhichthesunwasshining,IarrivedatHighgate.Iwalkedthelastmile,thinkingasIwentalongofwhatIhadtodo;andleftthecarriagethathadfollowedmeallthroughthenight,awaitingorderstoadvance.

           Thehouse,whenIcameuptoit,lookedjustthesame.Notablindwasraised;nosignoflifewasinthedullpavedcourt,withitscoveredwayleadingtothedisuseddoor.Thewindhadquitegonedown,andnothingmoved.

           Ihadnot,atfirst,thecouragetoringatthegate;andwhenIdidring,myerrandseemedtometobeexpressedintheverysoundofthebell.Thelittleparlour-maidcameout,withthekeyinherhand;andlookingearnestlyatmeassheunlockedthegate,said:

           ‘Ibegyourpardon,sir.Areyouill?’

           ‘Ihavebeenmuchagitated,andamfatigued.’

           ‘Isanythingthematter,sir?Mr.James?‘Hush!’saidI.‘Yes,somethinghashappened,thatIhavetobreaktoMrs.Steerforth.

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