Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Predictions

           Mama,forgivemewhenIsaythatitwasyouwhofirstpresentedtomymindthethoughtthatanyonecouldwrongme,andwronghim,bysuchacruelsuspicion.’

           ‘Me!’criedMrs.Markleham.

           (‘Ah!You,tobesure!’observedmyaunt,‘andyoucan’tfanitaway,mymilitaryfriend!’)

           ‘Itwasthefirstunhappinessofmynewlife,’saidAnnie.‘ItwasthefirstoccasionofeveryunhappymomentIhaveknown.Thesemomentshavebeenmore,oflate,thanIcancount;butnot—mygeneroushusband!—notforthereasonyousuppose;forinmyheartthereisnotathought,arecollection,orahope,thatanypowercouldseparatefromyou!’

           Sheraisedhereyes,andclaspedherhands,andlookedasbeautifulandtrue,Ithought,asanySpirit.TheDoctorlookedonher,henceforth,assteadfastlyassheonhim.

           ‘Mamaisblameless,’shewenton,‘ofhavingeverurgedyouforherself,andsheisblamelessinintentioneveryway,Iamsure,—butwhenIsawhowmanyimportunateclaimswerepresseduponyouinmyname;howyouweretradedoninmyname;howgenerousyouwere,andhowMr.Wickfield,whohadyourwelfareverymuchatheart,resentedit;thefirstsenseofmyexposuretothemeansuspicionthatmytendernesswasbought—andsoldtoyou,ofallmenonearthfelluponmelikeunmeriteddisgrace,inwhichIforcedyoutoparticipate.

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