Дэвид Копперфильд

A Little Cold Water

           Iwentdownonmyknees.Ipluckedatmyhair.Idenouncedmyselfasaremorselessbruteandaruthlessbeast.Iimploredherforgiveness.Ibesoughthertolookup.IravagedMissMills’swork-boxforasmelling-bottle,andinmyagonyofmindappliedanivoryneedle-caseinstead,anddroppedalltheneedlesoverDora.IshookmyfistsatJip,whowasasfranticasmyself.Idideverywildextravagancethatcouldbedone,andwasalongwaybeyondtheendofmywitswhenMissMillscameintotheroom.

           ‘Whohasdonethis?’exclaimedMissMills,succouringherfriend.

           Ireplied,‘I,MissMills!Ihavedoneit!Beholdthedestroyer!’-orwordstothateffectandhidmyfacefromthelight,inthesofacushion.

           AtfirstMissMillsthoughtitwasaquarrel,andthatwewerevergingontheDesertofSahara;butshesoonfoundouthowmattersstood,formydearaffectionatelittleDora,embracingher,beganexclaimingthatIwas‘apoorlabourer’;andthencriedforme,andembracedme,andaskedmewouldIlethergivemeallhermoneytokeep,andthenfellonMissMills’sneck,sobbingasifhertenderheartwerebroken.

           MissMillsmusthavebeenborntobeablessingtous.

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