Дэвид Копперфильд

The Wanderer

           Theywouldsetmedownattheircottagedoors,andgivemewhat-notfurtoeatanddrink,andshowmewheretosleep;andmanyawoman,Mas’rDavy,ashashadadaughterofaboutEm’ly’sage,I’vefounda-waitingfurme,atOurSaviour’sCrossoutsidethevillage,furtodomesim’larkindnesses.Somehashaddaughtersaswasdead.AndGodonlyknowshowgoodthemmotherswastome!’

           ItwasMarthaatthedoor.Isawherhaggard,listeningfacedistinctly.Mydreadwaslestheshouldturnhishead,andseehertoo.

           ‘Theywouldoftenputtheirchildrenparticulartheirlittlegirls,’saidMr.Peggotty,‘uponmyknee;andmanyatimeyoumighthaveseenmesittingattheirdoors,whennightwascomingin,a’mostasifthey’dbeenmyDarling’schildren.Oh,myDarling!’

           Overpoweredbysuddengrief,hesobbedaloud.Ilaidmytremblinghanduponthehandheputbeforehisface.‘Thankee,sir,’hesaid,‘doen’ttakenonotice.’

           Inaverylittlewhilehetookhishandawayandputitonhisbreast,andwentonwithhisstory.‘Theyoftenwalkedwithme,’hesaid,‘inthemorning,maybeamileortwouponmyroad;andwhenweparted,andIsaid,“I’mverythankfultoyou!Godblessyou!”theyalwaysseemedtounderstand,andansweredpleasant.AtlastIcometothesea.Itwarn’thard,youmaysuppose,foraseafaringmanlikemetoworkhiswayovertoItaly.WhenIgottheer,IwanderedonasIhaddoneafore.

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