Дэвид Копперфильд

A Greater Loss

           

           Inthisabstrusepursuit;inmakinganaccountforPeggotty,ofallthepropertyintowhichshehadcome;inarrangingalltheaffairsinanorderlymanner;andinbeingherrefereeandadviseroneverypoint,toourjointdelight;Ipassedtheweekbeforethefuneral.IdidnotseelittleEmilyinthatinterval,buttheytoldmeshewastobequietlymarriedinafortnight.

           Ididnotattendthefuneralincharacter,ifImayventuretosayso.ImeanIwasnotdressedupinablackcoatandastreamer,tofrightenthebirds;butIwalkedovertoBlunderstoneearlyinthemorning,andwasinthechurchyardwhenitcame,attendedonlybyPeggottyandherbrother.Themadgentlemanlookedon,outofmylittlewindow;Mr.Chillip’sbabywaggeditsheavyhead,androlleditsgoggleeyes,attheclergyman,overitsnurse’sshoulder;Mr.Omerbreathedshortinthebackground;nooneelsewasthere;anditwasveryquiet.Wewalkedaboutthechurchyardforanhour,afterallwasover;andpulledsomeyoungleavesfromthetreeabovemymother’sgrave.

           Adreadfallsonmehere.Acloudisloweringonthedistanttown,towardswhichIretracedmysolitarysteps.Ifeartoapproachit.Icannotbeartothinkofwhatdidcome,uponthatmemorablenight;ofwhatmustcomeagain,ifIgoon.

           Itisnoworse,becauseIwriteofit.Itwouldbenobetter,ifIstoppedmymostunwillinghand.Itisdone.Nothingcanundoit;nothingcanmakeitotherwisethanasitwas.

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