Дэвид Копперфильд

The Wanderer

           IfIdoen’tfindher,maybeshe’llcometohear,sometime,asherlovinguncleonlyendedhissearchforherwhenheendedhislife;andifIknowher,eventhatwillturnherhomeatlast!’

           Ashewentoutintotherigorousnight,Isawthelonelyfigureflitawaybeforeus.Iturnedhimhastilyonsomepretence,andheldhiminconversationuntilitwasgone.

           Hespokeofatraveller’shouseontheDoverRoad,whereheknewhecouldfindaclean,plainlodgingforthenight.IwentwithhimoverWestminsterBridge,andpartedfromhimontheSurreyshore.Everythingseemed,tomyimagination,tobehushedinreverenceforhim,asheresumedhissolitaryjourneythroughthesnow.

           Ireturnedtotheinnyard,and,impressedbymyremembranceoftheface,lookedawfullyaroundforit.Itwasnotthere.Thesnowhadcoveredourlatefootprints;mynewtrackwastheonlyonetobeseen;andeventhatbegantodieaway(itsnowedsofast)asIlookedbackovermyshoulder.

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