Дэвид Копперфильд

Blissful

           

           Theyoungcreatureinpinkhadamotheringreen;andIratherthinkthelatterseparatedusfrommotivesofpolicy.Howbeit,therewasageneralbreakingupoftheparty,whiletheremnantsofthedinnerwerebeingputaway;andIstrolledoffbymyselfamongthetrees,inaragingandremorsefulstate.IwasdebatingwhetherIshouldpretendthatIwasnotwell,andflyIdon’tknowwhereuponmygallantgrey,whenDoraandMissMillsmetme.

           ‘Mr.Copperfield,’saidMissMills,‘youaredull.’

           Ibeggedherpardon.Notatall.

           ‘AndDora,’saidMissMills,‘YOUaredull.’

           Ohdearno!Notintheleast.

           ‘Mr.CopperfieldandDora,’saidMissMills,withanalmostvenerableair.‘Enoughofthis.Donotallowatrivialmisunderstandingtowithertheblossomsofspring,which,onceputforthandblighted,cannotberenewed.Ispeak,’saidMissMills,‘fromexperienceofthepasttheremote,irrevocablepast.Thegushingfountainswhichsparkleinthesun,mustnotbestoppedinmerecaprice;theoasisinthedesertofSaharamustnotbepluckedupidly.’

           IhardlyknewwhatIdid,Iwasburningallovertothatextraordinaryextent;butItookDora’slittlehandandkissedit-andsheletme!IkissedMissMills’shand;andweallseemed,tomythinking,togostraightuptotheseventhheaven.Wedidnotcomedownagain.Westayeduptherealltheevening.

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