Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           IfIonceshookthefoundationsofthesacredconfidenceandusage,invirtueofwhichitwasgiventome,itwaslost,andcouldneverberecovered.Isetthissteadilybeforemyself.ThebetterIlovedher,themoreitbehovedmenevertoforgetit.

           Iwalkedthroughthestreets;and,oncemoreseeingmyoldadversarythebutchernowaconstable,withhisstaffhangingupintheshopwentdowntolookattheplacewhereIhadfoughthim;andtheremeditatedonMissShepherdandtheeldestMissLarkins,andalltheidlelovesandlikings,anddislikings,ofthattime.NothingseemedtohavesurvivedthattimebutAgnes;andshe,everastaraboveme,wasbrighterandhigher.

           WhenIreturned,Mr.Wickfieldhadcomehome,fromagardenhehad,acoupleofmilesorsooutoftown,wherehenowemployedhimselfalmosteveryday.Ifoundhimasmyaunthaddescribedhim.Wesatdowntodinner,withsomehalf-dozenlittlegirls;andheseemedbuttheshadowofhishandsomepictureonthewall.

           Thetranquillityandpeacebelonging,ofold,tothatquietgroundinmymemory,pervadeditagain.Whendinnerwasdone,Mr.Wickfieldtakingnowine,andIdesiringnone,wewentup-stairs;whereAgnesandherlittlechargessangandplayed,andworked.Afterteathechildrenleftus;andwethreesattogether,talkingofthebygonedays.

           ‘Mypartinthem,’saidMr.Wickfield,shakinghiswhitehead,‘hasmuchmatterforregretfordeepregret,anddeepcontrition,Trotwood,youwellknow.

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