Дэвид Копперфильд

Intelligence

           Thisdevilwhomyoumakeanangelof.Imeanthislowgirlwhomhepickedoutofthetide-mud,’withherblackeyesfulluponme,andherpassionatefingerup,‘maybealive,forIbelievesomecommonthingsarehardtodie.Ifsheis,youwilldesiretohaveapearlofsuchpricefoundandtakencareof.Wedesirethat,too;thathemaynotbyanychancebemadeherpreyagain.Sofar,weareunitedinoneinterest;andthatiswhyI,whowoulddoheranymischiefthatsocoarseawretchiscapableoffeeling,havesentforyoutohearwhatyouhaveheard.’

           Isaw,bythechangeinherface,thatsomeonewasadvancingbehindme.ItwasMrs.Steerforth,whogavemeherhandmorecoldlythanofyore,andwithanaugmentationofherformerstatelinessofmanner,butstill,IperceivedandIwastouchedbyitwithanineffaceableremembranceofmyoldloveforherson.Shewasgreatlyaltered.Herfinefigurewasfarlessupright,herhandsomefacewasdeeplymarked,andherhairwasalmostwhite.Butwhenshesatdownontheseat,shewasahandsomeladystill;andwellIknewthebrighteyewithitsloftylook,thathadbeenalightinmyverydreamsatschool.

           ‘IsMr.Copperfieldinformedofeverything,Rosa?’

           ‘Yes.’

           ‘AndhasheheardLittimerhimself?’

           ‘Yes;Ihavetoldhimwhyyouwishedit.’‘Youareagoodgirl.

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