Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           Iamsure,althoughabsorbedingazingatthewater,thathershawlwasoffhershoulders,andthatshewasmufflingherhandsinit,inanunsettledandbewilderedway,moreliketheactionofasleep-walkerthanawakingperson.Iknow,andnevercanforget,thattherewasthatinherwildmannerwhichgavemenoassurancebutthatshewouldsinkbeforemyeyes,untilIhadherarmwithinmygrasp.

           AtthesamemomentIsaid‘Martha!’

           Sheutteredaterrifiedscream,andstruggledwithmewithsuchstrengththatIdoubtifIcouldhaveheldheralone.Butastrongerhandthanminewaslaiduponher;andwhensheraisedherfrightenedeyesandsawwhoseitwas,shemadebutonemoreeffortanddroppeddownbetweenus.Wecarriedherawayfromthewatertowherethereweresomedrystones,andtherelaidherdown,cryingandmoaning.Inalittlewhileshesatamongthestones,holdingherwretchedheadwithbothherhands.

           ‘Oh,theriver!’shecriedpassionately.‘Oh,theriver!’

           ‘Hush,hush!’saidI.‘Calmyourself.’

           Butshestillrepeatedthesamewords,continuallyexclaiming,‘Oh,theriver!’overandoveragain.

           ‘Iknowit’slikeme!’sheexclaimed.‘IknowthatIbelongtoit.

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