Дэвид Копперфильд

Depression

           Thatthenmyaunthadsaid,‘Dick,Iamruined.’Thatthenhehadsaid,‘Oh,indeed!’Thatthenmyaunthadpraisedhimhighly,whichhewasgladof.Andthatthentheyhadcometome,andhadhadbottledporterandsandwichesontheroad.

           Mr.Dickwassoverycomplacent,sittingonthefootofthebed,nursinghisleg,andtellingmethis,withhiseyeswideopenandasurprisedsmile,thatIamsorrytosayIwasprovokedintoexplainingtohimthatruinmeantdistress,want,andstarvation;butIwassoonbitterlyreprovedforthisharshness,byseeinghisfaceturnpale,andtearscoursedownhislengthenedcheeks,whilehefixeduponmealookofsuchunutterablewoe,thatitmighthavesoftenedafarharderheartthanmine.ItookinfinitelygreaterpainstocheerhimupagainthanIhadtakentodepresshim;andIsoonunderstood(asIoughttohaveknownatfirst)thathehadbeensoconfident,merelybecauseofhisfaithinthewisestandmostwonderfulofwomen,andhisunboundedrelianceonmyintellectualresources.Thelatter,Ibelieve,heconsideredamatchforanykindofdisasternotabsolutelymortal.

           ‘Whatcanwedo,Trotwood?’saidMr.Dick.‘There’stheMemorial-’

           ‘Tobesurethereis,’saidI.‘Butallwecandojustnow,Mr.Dick,istokeepacheerfulcountenance,andnotletmyauntseethatwearethinkingaboutit.

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