Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           Knowingthatthisstatemustpass,beforewecouldspeaktoherwithanyhope,Iventuredtorestrainhimwhenhewouldhaveraisedher,andwestoodbyinsilenceuntilshebecamemoretranquil.

           ‘Martha,’saidIthen,leaningdown,andhelpinghertorise—sheseemedtowanttoriseasifwiththeintentionofgoingaway,butshewasweak,andleanedagainstaboat.‘Doyouknowwhothisis,whoiswithme?’

           Shesaidfaintly,‘Yes.’

           ‘Doyouknowthatwehavefollowedyoualongwaytonight?’

           Sheshookherhead.Shelookedneitherathimnoratme,butstoodinahumbleattitude,holdingherbonnetandshawlinonehand,withoutappearingconsciousofthem,andpressingtheother,clenched,againstherforehead.

           ‘Areyoucomposedenough,’saidI,‘tospeakonthesubjectwhichsointerestedyou—IhopeHeavenmayrememberit!thatsnowynight?’

           Hersobsbrokeoutafresh,andshemurmuredsomeinarticulatethankstomefornothavingdrivenherawayfromthedoor.

           ‘Iwanttosaynothingformyself,’shesaid,afterafewmoments.‘Iambad,Iamlost.Ihavenohopeatall.Buttellhim,sir,’shehadshrunkawayfromhim,‘ifyoudon’tfeeltoohardtometodoit,thatIneverwasinanywaythecauseofhismisfortune.’‘Ithasneverbeenattributedtoyou,’Ireturned,earnestlyrespondingtoherearnestness.

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