Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           Soitwas,thoughinasofteneddegree,whenIwenttomyneatroomatnight;and,turningovertheleavesofthecrocodile-book(whichwasalwaysthere,uponalittletable),rememberedwithagratefulhearthowblestIwasinhavingsuchafriendasSteerforth,suchafriendasPeggotty,andsuchasubstituteforwhatIhadlostasmyexcellentandgenerousaunt.

           MynearestwaytoYarmouth,incomingbackfromtheselongwalks,wasbyaferry.Itlandedmeontheflatbetweenthetownandthesea,whichIcouldmakestraightacross,andsosavemyselfaconsiderablecircuitbythehighroad.Mr.Peggotty’shousebeingonthatwaste-place,andnotahundredyardsoutofmytrack,IalwayslookedinasIwentby.Steerforthwasprettysuretobethereexpectingme,andwewentontogetherthroughthefrostyairandgatheringfogtowardsthetwinklinglightsofthetown.

           Onedarkevening,whenIwaslaterthanusualforIhad,thatday,beenmakingmypartingvisittoBlunderstone,aswewerenowabouttoreturnhomeIfoundhimaloneinMr.Peggotty’shouse,sittingthoughtfullybeforethefire.Hewassointentuponhisownreflectionsthathewasquiteunconsciousofmyapproach.This,indeed,hemighteasilyhavebeenifhehadbeenlessabsorbed,forfootstepsfellnoiselesslyonthesandygroundoutside;butevenmyentrancefailedtorousehim.Iwasstandingclosetohim,lookingathim;andstill,withaheavybrow,hewaslostinhismeditations.

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