Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           IfIknewhigherpraise,Trot,Iwouldbestowitonher.’

           Therewasnohigherpraiseforher;nohigherreproachforme.Oh,howhadIstrayedsofaraway!

           ‘Ifshetrainstheyounggirlswhomshehasabouther,tobelikeherself,’saidmyaunt,earnesteventothefillingofhereyeswithtears,‘Heavenknows,herlifewillbewellemployed!Usefulandhappy,asshesaidthatday!Howcouldshebeotherwisethanusefulandhappy!’

           ‘HasAgnesanyIwasthinkingaloud,ratherthanspeaking.

           ‘Well?Hey?Anywhat?’saidmyaunt,sharply.

           ‘Anylover,’saidI.

           ‘Ascore,’criedmyaunt,withakindofindignantpride.‘Shemighthavemarriedtwentytimes,mydear,sinceyouhavebeengone!’

           ‘Nodoubt,’saidI.‘Nodoubt.Buthassheanyloverwhoisworthyofher?Agnescouldcarefornoother.’

           Myauntsatmusingforalittlewhile,withherchinuponherhand.Slowlyraisinghereyestomine,shesaid:

           ‘Isuspectshehasanattachment,Trot.’

           ‘Aprosperousone?’saidI.

           ‘Trot,’returnedmyauntgravely,‘Ican’tsay.Ihavenorighttotellyouevensomuch.Shehasneverconfidedittome,butIsuspectit.’

           Shelookedsoattentivelyandanxiouslyatme(Ievensawhertremble),thatIfeltnow,morethanever,thatshehadfollowedmylatethoughts.

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