Дэвид Копперфильд

I Become Neglected, and Am Provided for

           

           ‘Howdoyouknowit’snotthat?’saidPeggotty,afterasilence.

           ‘Oh,hissorrowisanotherandquiteadifferentthing.Heissorryatthismoment,sittingbythefiresidewithMissMurdstone;butifIwastogoin,Peggotty,hewouldbesomethingbesides.’

           ‘Whatwouldhebe?’saidPeggotty.

           ‘Angry,’Ianswered,withaninvoluntaryimitationofhisdarkfrown.‘Ifhewasonlysorry,hewouldn’tlookatmeashedoes.Iamonlysorry,anditmakesmefeelkinder.’

           Peggottysaidnothingforalittlewhile;andIwarmedmyhands,assilentasshe.

           ‘Davy,’shesaidatlength.

           ‘Yes,Peggotty?’‘Ihavetried,mydear,allwaysIcouldthinkofallthewaysthereare,andallthewaysthereain’t,inshorttogetasuitableservicehere,inBlunderstone;butthere’snosuchathing,mylove.’

           ‘Andwhatdoyoumeantodo,Peggotty,’saysI,wistfully.‘Doyoumeantogoandseekyourfortune?’

           ‘IexpectIshallbeforcedtogotoYarmouth,’repliedPeggotty,‘andlivethere.’

           ‘Youmighthavegonefartheroff,’Isaid,brighteningalittle,‘andbeenasbadaslost.Ishallseeyousometimes,mydearoldPeggotty,there.Youwon’tbequiteattheotherendoftheworld,willyou?’

           ‘Contraryways,pleaseGod!’criedPeggotty,withgreatanimation.

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