Дэвид Копперфильд

Blissful

           

           Dorabentherheadoverherdrawingandsaid,afteralittlewhile-Ihadsat,intheinterval,inaburningfever,andwithmylegsinaveryrigidstate

           ‘Youdidn’tseemtobesensibleofthathappinessyourself,atonetimeoftheday.’

           IsawnowthatIwasinforit,anditmustbedoneonthespot.

           ‘Youdidn’tcareforthathappinessintheleast,’saidDora,slightlyraisinghereyebrows,andshakingherhead,‘whenyouweresittingbyMissKitt.’

           Kitt,Ishouldobserve,wasthenameofthecreatureinpink,withthelittleeyes.

           ‘ThoughcertainlyIdon’tknowwhyyoushould,’saidDora,orwhyyoushouldcallitahappinessatall.Butofcourseyoudon’tmeanwhatyousay.AndIamsurenoonedoubtsyourbeingatlibertytodowhateveryoulike.Jip,younaughtyboy,comehere!’

           Idon’tknowhowIdidit.Ididitinamoment.IinterceptedJip.IhadDorainmyarms.Iwasfullofeloquence.Ineverstoppedforaword.ItoldherhowIlovedher.ItoldherIshoulddiewithouther.ItoldherthatIidolizedandworshippedher.Jipbarkedmadlyallthetime.

           WhenDorahungherheadandcried,andtrembled,myeloquenceincreasedsomuchthemore.Ifshewouldlikemetodieforher,shehadbuttosaytheword,andIwasready.LifewithoutDora’slovewasnotathingtohaveonanyterms.Icouldn’tbearit,andIwouldn’t.

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