Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           HowcouldI,when,blendedwithitall,washerdearself,thebetterangelofmylife?

           ‘Andyou,Agnes,’Isaid,byandby.‘Tellmeofyourself.Youhavehardlyevertoldmeofyourownlife,inallthislapseoftime!’

           ‘WhatshouldItell?’sheanswered,withherradiantsmile.‘Papaiswell.Youseeushere,quietinourownhome;ouranxietiessetatrest,ourhomerestoredtous;andknowingthat,dearTrotwood,youknowall.’

           ‘All,Agnes?’saidI.

           Shelookedatme,withsomeflutteringwonderinherface.

           ‘Istherenothingelse,Sister?’Isaid.

           Hercolour,whichhadjustnowfaded,returned,andfadedagain.Shesmiled;withaquietsadness,Ithought;andshookherhead.

           Ihadsoughttoleadhertowhatmyaunthadhintedat;for,sharplypainfultomeasitmustbetoreceivethatconfidence,Iwastodisciplinemyheart,anddomydutytoher.Isaw,however,thatshewasuneasy,andIletitpass.

           ‘Youhavemuchtodo,dearAgnes?’

           ‘Withmyschool?’saidshe,lookingupagain,inallherbrightcomposure.

           ‘Yes.Itislaborious,isitnot?’

           ‘Thelabourissopleasant,’shereturned,‘thatitisscarcelygratefulinmetocallitbythatname.’

           ‘Nothinggoodisdifficulttoyou,’saidI.

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