Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Predictions

           

           Shestoodquitestill,beforetheDoctor,andspokewithanearnestnessthatthrilledme.Yethervoicewasjustasquietasbefore.

           ‘Whenhewaswaitingtobetheobjectofyourmunificence,sofreelybestowedformysake,andwhenIwasunhappyinthemercenaryshapeIwasmadetowear,Ithoughtitwouldhavebecomehimbettertohaveworkedhisownwayon.IthoughtthatifIhadbeenhe,Iwouldhavetriedtodoit,atthecostofalmostanyhardship.ButIthoughtnoworseofhim,untilthenightofhisdepartureforIndia.ThatnightIknewhehadafalseandthanklessheart.Isawadoublemeaning,then,inMr.Wickfield’sscrutinyofme.Iperceived,forthefirsttime,thedarksuspicionthatshadowedmylife.’

           ‘Suspicion,Annie!’saidtheDoctor.‘No,no,no!’

           ‘Inyourmindtherewasnone,Iknow,myhusband!’shereturned.‘AndwhenIcametoyou,thatnight,tolaydownallmyloadofshameandgrief,andknewthatIhadtotellthat,underneathyourroof,oneofmyownkindred,towhomyouhadbeenabenefactor,fortheloveofme,hadspokentomewordsthatshouldhavefoundnoutterance,evenifIhadbeentheweakandmercenarywretchhethoughtmemymindrevoltedfromthetainttheverytaleconveyed.Itdieduponmylips,andfromthathourtillnowhasneverpassedthem.’

           Mrs.Markleham,withashortgroan,leanedbackinhereasy-chair;andretiredbehindherfan,asifshewerenevercomingoutanymore.

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