Дэвид Копперфильд

Wickfield and Heep

           ‘Butyoudon’ttakenoticeofhimwithamother’seye!’

           Hismother’seyewasanevileyetotherestoftheworld,Ithoughtasitmetmine,howsoeveraffectionatetohim;andIbelievesheandhersonweredevotedtooneanother.Itpassedme,andwentontoAgnes.

           ‘Don’tYOUseeawastingandawearinginhim,MissWickfield?’inquiredMrs.Heep.

           ‘No,’saidAgnes,quietlypursuingtheworkonwhichshewasengaged.‘Youaretoosolicitousabouthim.Heisverywell.’

           Mrs.Heep,withaprodigioussniff,resumedherknitting.

           Sheneverleftoff,orleftusforamoment.Ihadarrivedearlyintheday,andwehadstillthreeorfourhoursbeforedinner;butshesatthere,plyingherknitting-needlesasmonotonouslyasanhour-glassmighthavepouredoutitssands.Shesatononesideofthefire;Isatatthedeskinfrontofit;alittlebeyondme,ontheotherside,satAgnes.Whensoever,slowlyponderingovermyletter,Iliftedupmyeyes,andmeetingthethoughtfulfaceofAgnes,sawitclear,andbeamencouragementuponme,withitsownangelicexpression,Iwasconsciouspresentlyoftheevileyepassingme,andgoingontoher,andcomingbacktomeagain,anddroppingfurtivelyupontheknitting.

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