Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Predictions

           ButthisIknow,thatwesawtheDoctorbeforehesawus,sittingathistable,amongthefoliovolumesinwhichhedelighted,restinghisheadcalmlyonhishand.That,inthesamemoment,wesawMrs.Strongglidein,paleandtrembling.ThatMr.Dicksupportedheronhisarm.ThathelaidhisotherhandupontheDoctor’sarm,causinghimtolookupwithanabstractedair.That,astheDoctormovedhishead,hiswifedroppeddownononekneeathisfeet,and,withherhandsimploringlylifted,fixeduponhisfacethememorablelookIhadneverforgotten.ThatatthissightMrs.Marklehamdroppedthenewspaper,andstaredmorelikeafigure-headintendedforashiptobecalledTheAstonishment,thananythingelseIcanthinkof.

           ThegentlenessoftheDoctor’smannerandsurprise,thedignitythatmingledwiththesupplicatingattitudeofhiswife,theamiableconcernofMr.Dick,andtheearnestnesswithwhichmyauntsaidtoherself,‘Thatmanmad!’(triumphantlyexpressiveofthemiseryfromwhichshehadsavedhim)Iseeandhear,ratherthanremember,asIwriteaboutit.

           ‘Doctor!’saidMr.Dick.‘Whatisitthat’samiss?Lookhere!’

           ‘Annie!’criedtheDoctor.‘Notatmyfeet,mydear!’

           ‘Yes!’shesaid.‘Ibegandpraythatnoonewillleavetheroom!Oh,myhusbandandfather,breakthislongsilence.Letusbothknowwhatitisthathascomebetweenus!’

           Mrs.

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