Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           

           Then,Ishouldride,Isaid.IcouldnothavecomethroughCanterburytodaywithoutstopping,ifIhadbeencomingtoanyonebuther.

           Shewaspleased,butanswered,‘Tut,Trot;Myoldboneswouldhavekepttilltomorrow!’andsoftlypattedmyhandagain,asIsatlookingthoughtfullyatthefire.

           Thoughtfully,forIcouldnotbehereoncemore,andsonearAgnes,withouttherevivalofthoseregretswithwhichIhadsolongbeenoccupied.Softenedregretstheymightbe,teachingmewhatIhadfailedtolearnwhenmyyoungerlifewasallbeforeme,butnotthelessregrets.‘Oh,Trot,’Iseemedtohearmyauntsayoncemore;andIunderstoodherbetternow‘Blind,blind,blind!’

           Webothkeptsilenceforsomeminutes.WhenIraisedmyeyes,Ifoundthatshewassteadilyobservantofme.Perhapsshehadfollowedthecurrentofmymind;foritseemedtomeaneasyonetotracknow,wilfulasithadbeenonce.

           ‘Youwillfindherfatherawhite-hairedoldman,’saidmyaunt,‘thoughabettermaninallotherrespectsareclaimedman.Neitherwillyoufindhimmeasuringallhumaninterests,andjoys,andsorrows,withhisonepoorlittleinch-rulenow.Trustme,child,suchthingsmustshrinkverymuch,beforetheycanbemeasuredoffinthatway.’

           ‘Indeedtheymust,’saidI.

           ‘Youwillfindher,’pursuedmyaunt,‘asgood,asbeautiful,asearnest,asdisinterested,asshehasalwaysbeen.

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