Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           Iknowthatit’sthenaturalcompanyofsuchasIam!Itcomesfromcountryplaces,wheretherewasoncenoharminitanditcreepsthroughthedismalstreets,defiledandmiserableanditgoesaway,likemylife,toagreatsea,thatisalwaystroubledandIfeelthatImustgowithit!’Ihaveneverknownwhatdespairwas,exceptinthetoneofthosewords.

           ‘Ican’tkeepawayfromit.Ican’tforgetit.Ithauntsmedayandnight.It’stheonlythinginalltheworldthatIamfitfor,orthat’sfitforme.Oh,thedreadfulriver!’

           Thethoughtpassedthroughmymindthatinthefaceofmycompanion,ashelookeduponherwithoutspeechormotion,Imighthavereadhisniece’shistory,ifIhadknownnothingofit.Ineversaw,inanypaintingorreality,horrorandcompassionsoimpressivelyblended.Heshookasifhewouldhavefallen;andhishandItoucheditwithmyown,forhisappearancealarmedmewasdeadlycold.

           ‘Sheisinastateoffrenzy,’Iwhisperedtohim.‘Shewillspeakdifferentlyinalittletime.’

           Idon’tknowwhathewouldhavesaidinanswer.Hemadesomemotionwithhismouth,andseemedtothinkhehadspoken;buthehadonlypointedtoherwithhisoutstretchedhand.

           Anewburstofcryingcameuponhernow,inwhichsheoncemorehidherfaceamongthestones,andlaybeforeus,aprostrateimageofhumiliationandruin.

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