Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am a New Boy in More Senses than One

           Buthecheckedmeandsaid:‘Shouldyouliketostaywithus,Trotwood,ortogoelsewhere?’

           ‘Tostay,’Ianswered,quickly.

           ‘Youaresure?’

           ‘Ifyouplease.IfImay!’

           ‘Why,it’sbutadulllifethatweleadhere,boy,Iamafraid,’hesaid.

           ‘NotmoredullformethanAgnes,sir.Notdullatall!’

           ‘ThanAgnes,’herepeated,walkingslowlytothegreatchimney-piece,andleaningagainstit.‘ThanAgnes!’

           Hehaddrankwinethatevening(orIfanciedit),untilhiseyeswerebloodshot.NotthatIcouldseethemnow,fortheywerecastdown,andshadedbyhishand;butIhadnoticedthemalittlewhilebefore.

           ‘NowIwonder,’hemuttered,‘whethermyAgnestiresofme.WhenshouldIevertireofher!Butthat’sdifferent,that’squitedifferent.’

           Hewasmusing,notspeakingtome;soIremainedquiet.

           ‘Adulloldhouse,’hesaid,‘andamonotonouslife;butImusthavehernearme.Imustkeephernearme.IfthethoughtthatImaydieandleavemydarling,orthatmydarlingmaydieandleaveme,comeslikeaspectre,todistressmyhappiesthours,andisonlytobedrownedin

           Hedidnotsupplytheword;butpacingslowlytotheplacewherehehadsat,andmechanicallygoingthroughtheactionofpouringwinefromtheemptydecanter,setitdownandpacedbackagain.

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