Дэвид Копперфильд

The Wanderer

           Shetriedtohideherwriting,butshecouldn’thideitfromMe!’

           Hefoldedupthenoteagain,withgreatpatienceandcare,inexactlythesameform,andlaiditononeside.

           ‘ThiscometoMissisGummidge,’hesaid,openinganother,‘twoorthreemonthsago.‘Afterlookingatitforsomemoments,hegaveittome,andaddedinalowvoice,‘Besogoodasreadit,sir.’

           Ireadasfollows:

           ‘Ohwhatwillyoufeelwhenyouseethiswriting,andknowitcomesfrommywickedhand!Buttry,try—notformysake,butforuncle’sgoodness,trytoletyourheartsoftentome,onlyforalittlelittletime!Try,praydo,torelenttowardsamiserablegirl,andwritedownonabitofpaperwhetherheiswell,andwhathesaidaboutmebeforeyouleftoffevernamingmeamongyourselves—andwhether,ofanight,whenitismyoldtimeofcominghome,youeverseehimlookasifhethoughtofoneheusedtolovesodear.Oh,myheartisbreakingwhenIthinkaboutit!Iamkneelingdowntoyou,beggingandprayingyounottobeashardwithmeasIdeserve—asIwell,well,knowIdeservebuttobesogentleandsogood,astowritedownsomethingofhim,andtosendittome.

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