Дэвид Копперфильд

A Retrospect

           

           Iamlostintherecollectionofthisdeliciousinterview,andthewaltz,whenshecomestomeagain,withaplainelderlygentlemanwhohasbeenplayingwhistallnight,uponherarm,andsays:

           ‘Oh!hereismyboldfriend!Mr.Chestlewantstoknowyou,Mr.Copperfield.’

           Ifeelatoncethatheisafriendofthefamily,andammuchgratified.

           ‘Iadmireyourtaste,sir,’saysMr.Chestle.‘Itdoesyoucredit.Isupposeyoudon’ttakemuchinterestinhops;butIamaprettylargegrowermyself;andifyoueverliketocomeovertoourneighbourhoodneighbourhoodofAshfordandtakearunaboutourplace,weshallbegladforyoutostopaslongasyoulike.’

           IthankMr.Chestlewarmly,andshakehands.IthinkIaminahappydream.IwaltzwiththeeldestMissLarkinsonceagain.ShesaysIwaltzsowell!Igohomeinastateofunspeakablebliss,andwaltzinimagination,allnightlong,withmyarmroundthebluewaistofmydeardivinity.Forsomedaysafterwards,Iamlostinrapturousreflections;butIneitherseeherinthestreet,norwhenIcall.Iamimperfectlyconsoledforthisdisappointmentbythesacredpledge,theperishedflower.

           ‘Trotwood,’saysAgnes,onedayafterdinner.‘Whodoyouthinkisgoingtobemarriedtomorrow?Someoneyouadmire.’

           ‘Notyou,Isuppose,Agnes?’

           ‘Notme!’raisinghercheerfulfacefromthemusicsheiscopying

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