Дэвид Копперфильд

Somebody Turns up

           Theresultisdestruction.Theboltisimpending,andthetreemustfall.

           ‘Letthewretchedmanwhonowaddressesyou,mydearCopperfield,beabeacontoyouthroughlife.Hewriteswiththatintention,andinthathope.Ifhecouldthinkhimselfofsomuchuse,onegleamofdaymight,bypossibility,penetrateintothecheerlessdungeonofhisremainingexistencethoughhislongevityis,atpresent(tosaytheleastofit),extremelyproblematical.

           ‘Thisisthelastcommunication,mydearCopperfield,youwilleverreceive

           ‘From

           ‘TheBeggaredOutcast,

           ‘WILKINSMICAWBER.’

           Iwassoshockedbythecontentsofthisheart-rendingletter,thatIranoffdirectlytowardsthelittlehotelwiththeintentionoftakingitonmywaytoDoctorStrong’s,andtryingtosootheMr.Micawberwithawordofcomfort.But,half-waythere,ImettheLondoncoachwithMr.andMrs.Micawberupbehind;Mr.Micawber,theverypictureoftranquilenjoyment,smilingatMrs.Micawber’sconversation,eatingwalnutsoutofapaperbag,withabottlestickingoutofhisbreastpocket.Astheydidnotseeme,Ithoughtitbest,allthingsconsidered,nottoseethem.So,withagreatweighttakenoffmymind,Iturnedintoaby-streetthatwasthenearestwaytoschool,andfelt,uponthewhole,relievedthattheyweregone;thoughIstilllikedthemverymuch,nevertheless.

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