Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           

           Theopeningofthelittledoorinthepanelledwallmademestartandturn.Herbeautifulsereneeyesmetmineasshecametowardsme.Shestoppedandlaidherhanduponherbosom,andIcaughtherinmyarms.

           ‘Agnes!mydeargirl!Ihavecometoosuddenlyuponyou.’

           ‘No,no!Iamsorejoicedtoseeyou,Trotwood!’

           ‘DearAgnes,thehappinessitistome,toseeyouonceagain!’

           Ifoldedhertomyheart,and,foralittlewhile,wewerebothsilent.Presentlywesatdown,sidebyside;andherangel-facewasturneduponmewiththewelcomeIhaddreamedof,wakingandsleeping,forwholeyears.

           Shewassotrue,shewassobeautiful,shewassogood,Iowedhersomuchgratitude,shewassodeartome,thatIcouldfindnoutteranceforwhatIfelt.Itriedtoblessher,triedtothankher,triedtotellher(asIhadoftendoneinletters)whataninfluenceshehaduponme;butallmyeffortswereinvain.Myloveandjoyweredumb.

           Withherownsweettranquillity,shecalmedmyagitation;ledmebacktothetimeofourparting;spoketomeofEmily,whomshehadvisited,insecret,manytimes;spoketometenderlyofDora’sgrave.Withtheunerringinstinctofhernobleheart,shetouchedthechordsofmymemorysosoftlyandharmoniously,thatnotonejarredwithinme;Icouldlistentothesorrowful,distantmusic,anddesiretoshrinkfromnothingitawoke.

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Roboto Lora
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