Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Predictions

           AndwhomindsDick?Dick’snobody!Whoo!’Heblewaslight,contemptuousbreath,asifheblewhimselfaway.

           Itwasfortunatehehadproceededsofarwithhismystery,forweheardthecoachstopatthelittlegardengate,whichbroughtmyauntandDorahome.

           ‘Notaword,boy!’hepursuedinawhisper;‘leavealltheblamewithDicksimpleDickmadDick.Ihavebeenthinking,sir,forsometime,thatIwasgettingit,andnowIhavegotit.Afterwhatyouhavesaidtome,IamsureIhavegotit.Allright!’NotanotherworddidMr.Dickutteronthesubject;buthemadeaverytelegraphofhimselfforthenexthalf-hour(tothegreatdisturbanceofmyaunt’smind),toenjoininviolablesecrecyonme.

           Tomysurprise,Iheardnomoreaboutitforsometwoorthreeweeks,thoughIwassufficientlyinterestedintheresultofhisendeavours;descryingastrangegleamofgoodsenseIsaynothingofgoodfeeling,forthathealwaysexhibitedintheconclusiontowhichhehadcome.AtlastIbegantobelieve,that,intheflightyandunsettledstateofhismind,hehadeitherforgottenhisintentionorabandonedit.

           Onefairevening,whenDorawasnotinclinedtogoout,myauntandIstrolleduptotheDoctor’scottage.Itwasautumn,whentherewerenodebatestovextheeveningair;andIrememberhowtheleavessmeltlikeourgardenatBlunderstoneaswetrodthemunderfoot,andhowtheold,unhappyfeeling,seemedtogoby,onthesighingwind.

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