Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           Ihadlapsedintoastupidstate;butIwasrecoveringalittleandlookingforwardtoSteerforth,albeitMr.Creakleloomedbehindhim.AgainMr.Barkisappearedatthegate,andagainMissMurdstoneinherwarningvoice,said:‘Clara!’whenmymotherbentoverme,tobidmefarewell.

           Ikissedher,andmybabybrother,andwasverysorrythen;butnotsorrytogoaway,forthegulfbetweenuswasthere,andthepartingwasthere,everyday.Anditisnotsomuchtheembraceshegaveme,thatlivesinmymind,thoughitwasasferventascouldbe,aswhatfollowedtheembrace.

           Iwasinthecarrier’scartwhenIheardhercallingtome.Ilookedout,andshestoodatthegarden-gatealone,holdingherbabyupinherarmsformetosee.Itwascoldstillweather;andnotahairofherhead,norafoldofherdress,wasstirred,asshelookedintentlyatme,holdingupherchild.

           SoIlosther.SoIsawherafterwards,inmysleepatschoolasilentpresencenearmybedlookingatmewiththesameintentfaceholdingupherbabyinherarms.

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