Дэвид Копперфильд

A Last Retrospect

           IhopeTimewillbegoodtoyou.’

           Herimpatientattendantscoldsher,tellsherIamnotinmourning,bidsherlookagain,triestorouseher.

           ‘Youhaveseenmyson,sir,’saystheelderlady.‘Areyoureconciled?’

           Lookingfixedlyatme,sheputsherhandtoherforehead,andmoans.Suddenly,shecries,inaterriblevoice,‘Rosa,cometome.Heisdead!’Rosakneelingatherfeet,byturnscaressesher,andquarrelswithher;nowfiercelytellingher,‘Ilovedhimbetterthanyoueverdid!’-nowsoothinghertosleeponherbreast,likeasickchild.ThusIleavethem;thusIalwaysfindthem;thustheyweartheirtimeaway,fromyeartoyear.

           WhatshipcomessailinghomefromIndia,andwhatEnglishladyisthis,marriedtoagrowlingoldScotchCroesuswithgreatflapsofears?CanthisbeJuliaMills?

           IndeeditisJuliaMills,peevishandfine,withablackmantocarrycardsandletterstoheronagoldensalver,andacopper-colouredwomaninlinen,withabrighthandkerchiefroundherhead,toserveherTiffininherdressing-room.ButJuliakeepsnodiaryinthesedays;neversingsAffection’sDirge;eternallyquarrelswiththeoldScotchCroesus,whoisasortofyellowbearwithatannedhide.Juliaissteepedinmoneytothethroat,andtalksandthinksofnothingelse.IlikedherbetterintheDesertofSahara.

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