Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am a New Boy in More Senses than One

           Wickfieldscarcelyraisinghiseyesfromtheground.Whenwe,atlast,reachedourowndoor,Agnesdiscoveredthatshehadleftherlittlereticulebehind.Delightedtobeofanyservicetoher,Iranbacktofetchit.

           Iwentintothesupper-roomwhereithadbeenleft,whichwasdesertedanddark.ButadoorofcommunicationbetweenthatandtheDoctor’sstudy,wheretherewasalight,beingopen,Ipassedonthere,tosaywhatIwanted,andtogetacandle.

           TheDoctorwassittinginhiseasy-chairbythefireside,andhisyoungwifewasonastoolathisfeet.TheDoctor,withacomplacentsmile,wasreadingaloudsomemanuscriptexplanationorstatementofatheoryoutofthatinterminableDictionary,andshewaslookingupathim.ButwithsuchafaceasIneversaw.Itwassobeautifulinitsform,itwassoashypale,itwassofixedinitsabstraction,itwassofullofawild,sleep-walking,dreamyhorrorofIdon’tknowwhat.Theeyeswerewideopen,andherbrownhairfellintworichclustersonhershoulders,andonherwhitedress,disorderedbythewantofthelostribbon.DistinctlyasIrecollectherlook,Icannotsayofwhatitwasexpressive,Icannotevensayofwhatitisexpressivetomenow,risingagainbeforemyolderjudgement.Penitence,humiliation,shame,pride,love,andtrustfulnessIseethemall;andinthemall,IseethathorrorofIdon’tknowwhat.

           Myentrance,andmysayingwhatIwanted,rousedher

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