Дэвид Копперфильд

Intelligence

           Heofferednointerruption,butremainedthroughoutperfectlystill.Heseemedtopursueherfigurethroughthenarrative,andtoleteveryothershapegobyhim,asifitwerenothing.

           WhenIhaddone,heshadedhisface,andcontinuedsilent.Ilookedoutofthewindowforalittlewhile,andoccupiedmyselfwiththeplants.

           ‘Howdoyoufaretofeelaboutit,Mas’rDavy?’heinquiredatlength.

           ‘Ithinkthatsheisliving,’Ireplied.

           ‘Idoen’tknow.Maybethefirstshockwastoorough,andinthewildnessofherartThattherebluewaterassheusedtospeakon.Couldshehavethowto’thatsomanyyear,becauseitwastobehergrave!’

           Hesaidthis,musing,inalow,frightenedvoice;andwalkedacrossthelittleroom.

           ‘Andyet,’headded,‘Mas’rDavy,IhavefeltsosureasshewaslivingIhaveknow’d,awakeandsleeping,asitwassotrewthatIshouldfindherIhavebeensoledonbyit,andheldupbyit-thatIdoen’tbelieveIcanhavebeendeceived.No!Em’ly’salive!’

           Heputhishanddownfirmlyonthetable,andsethissunburntfaceintoaresoluteexpression.

           ‘Myniece,Em’ly,isalive,sir!’hesaid,steadfastly.‘Idoen’tknowwheeritcomesfrom,orhow’tis,butIamtoldasshe’salive!’

           Helookedalmostlikeamaninspired,ashesaidit.

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