Дэвид Копперфильд

A Visitor

           Nooneknowshow’tis.Shemighthavemarriedwell,amortoftimes,“but,uncle,”shesaystome,“that’sgoneforever.”Cheerfulalongwithme;retiredwhenothersisby;fondofgoinganydistancefurtoteachachild,orfurtotendasickperson,orfurtodosomekindnesstow’rdsayounggirl’swedding(andshe’sdoneamany,buthasneverseenone);fondlylovingofheruncle;patient;likedbyyoungandold;sowtoutbyallthathasanytrouble.That’sEm’ly!’

           Hedrewhishandacrosshisface,andwithahalf-suppressedsighlookedupfromthefire.

           ‘IsMarthawithyouyet?’Iasked.

           ‘Martha,’hereplied,‘gotmarried,Mas’rDavy,inthesecondyear.Ayoungman,afarm-labourer,ascomebyusonhiswaytomarketwithhismas’r’sdraysajourneyofoverfivehundredmile,theerandbackmadeoffersfurtotakeherfurhiswife(wivesisveryscarcetheer),andthentosetupfurtheirtwoselvesintheBush.Shespoketomefurtotellhimhertrewstory.Idid.Theywasmarried,andtheylivefowerhundredmileawayfromanyvoicesbuttheirownandthesingingbirds.’

           ‘Mrs.Gummidge?’Isuggested.

           Itwasapleasantkeytotouch,forMr.Peggottysuddenlyburstintoaroaroflaughter,andrubbedhishandsupanddownhislegs,ashehadbeenaccustomedtodowhenheenjoyedhimselfinthelong-shipwreckedboat.

           ‘Wouldyoubelieveit!’hesaid.

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