Дэвид Копперфильд

Enthusiasm

           Istimulatedmyselfintosuchaheat,andgotsooutofbreath,thatIfeltasifIhadbeenearningIdon’tknowhowmuch.

           Inthisstate,IwentintoacottagethatIsawwastolet,andexamineditnarrowly,forIfeltitnecessarytobepractical.ItwoulddoformeandDoraadmirably:withalittlefrontgardenforJiptorunaboutin,andbarkatthetradespeoplethroughtherailings,andacapitalroomupstairsformyaunt.Icameoutagain,hotterandfasterthanever,anddasheduptoHighgate,atsucharatethatIwasthereanhourtooearly;and,thoughIhadnotbeen,shouldhavebeenobligedtostrollabouttocoolmyself,beforeIwasatallpresentable.

           Myfirstcare,afterputtingmyselfunderthisnecessarycourseofpreparation,wastofindtheDoctor’shouse.ItwasnotinthatpartofHighgatewhereMrs.Steerforthlived,butquiteontheoppositesideofthelittletown.WhenIhadmadethisdiscovery,Iwentback,inanattractionIcouldnotresist,toalanebyMrs.Steerforth’s,andlookedoverthecornerofthegardenwall.Hisroomwasshutupclose.Theconservatorydoorswerestandingopen,andRosaDartlewaswalking,bareheaded,withaquick,impetuousstep,upanddownagravelwalkononesideofthelawn.Shegavemetheideaofsomefiercething,thatwasdraggingthelengthofitschaintoandfrouponabeatentrack,andwearingitsheartout.

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