Дэвид Копперфильд

Steerforth’s Home

           Itwasapictureofcomfort,fullofeasy-chairs,cushionsandfootstools,workedbyhismother’shand,andwithnosortofthingomittedthatcouldhelptorenderitcomplete.Finally,herhandsomefeatureslookeddownonherdarlingfromaportraitonthewall,asifitwereevensomethingtoherthatherlikenessshouldwatchhimwhileheslept.

           Ifoundthefireburningclearenoughinmyroombythistime,andthecurtainsdrawnbeforethewindowsandroundthebed,givingitaverysnugappearance.Isatdowninagreatchairuponthehearthtomeditateonmyhappiness;andhadenjoyedthecontemplationofitforsometime,whenIfoundalikenessofMissDartlelookingeagerlyatmefromabovethechimney-piece.

           Itwasastartlinglikeness,andnecessarilyhadastartlinglook.Thepainterhadn’tmadethescar,butImadeit;andthereitwas,comingandgoing;nowconfinedtotheupperlipasIhadseenitatdinner,andnowshowingthewholeextentofthewoundinflictedbythehammer,asIhadseenitwhenshewaspassionate.

           Iwonderedpeevishlywhytheycouldn’tputheranywhereelseinsteadofquarteringheronme.Togetridofher,Iundressedquickly,extinguishedmylight,andwenttobed.But,asIfellasleep,Icouldnotforgetthatshewasstilltherelooking,‘Isitreally,though?Iwanttoknow’;andwhenIawokeinthenight,IfoundthatIwasuneasilyaskingallsortsofpeopleinmydreamswhetheritreallywasornotwithoutknowingwhatImeant.

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