Дэвид Копперфильд

A Light Shines on My Way

           

           ThisChristmas-timebeingcome,andAgneshavingreposednonewconfidenceinme,adoubtthathadseveraltimesariseninmymind-whethershecouldhavethatperceptionofthetruestateofmybreast,whichrestrainedherwiththeapprehensionofgivingmepainbegantooppressmeheavily.Ifthatwereso,mysacrificewasnothing;myplainestobligationtoherunfulfilled;andeverypooractionIhadshrunkfrom,Iwashourlydoing.Iresolvedtosetthisrightbeyondalldoubt;ifsuchabarrierwerebetweenus,tobreakitdownatoncewithadeterminedhand.

           ItwaswhatlastingreasonhaveItorememberit!acold,harsh,winterday.Therehadbeensnow,somehoursbefore;anditlay,notdeep,buthard-frozenontheground.Outatsea,beyondmywindow,thewindblewruggedlyfromthenorth.Ihadbeenthinkingofit,sweepingoverthosemountainwastesofsnowinSwitzerland,theninaccessibletoanyhumanfoot;andhadbeenspeculatingwhichwasthelonelier,thosesolitaryregions,oradesertedocean.

           ‘Ridingtoday,Trot?’saidmyaunt,puttingherheadinatthedoor.

           ‘Yes,’saidI,‘IamgoingovertoCanterbury.It’sagooddayforaride.’

           ‘Ihopeyourhorsemaythinksotoo,’saidmyaunt;‘butatpresentheisholdingdownhisheadandhisears,standingbeforethedoorthere,asifhethoughthisstablepreferable.

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Roboto Lora
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