Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           

           ‘Itwasyou,ifIdon’tdeceivemyself,’shesaid,inabrokenvoice,‘thatcameintothekitchen,thenightshetooksuchpityonme;wassogentletome;didn’tshrinkawayfrommelikealltherest,andgavemesuchkindhelp!Wasityou,sir?’

           ‘Itwas,’saidI.

           ‘Ishouldhavebeenintheriverlongago,’shesaid,glancingatitwithaterribleexpression,‘ifanywrongtoherhadbeenuponmymind.Inevercouldhavekeptoutofitasinglewinter’snight,ifIhadnotbeenfreeofanyshareinthat!’

           ‘Thecauseofherflightistoowellunderstood,’Isaid.‘Youareinnocentofanypartinit,wethoroughlybelieve,weknow.’

           ‘Oh,Imighthavebeenmuchthebetterforher,ifIhadhadabetterheart!’exclaimedthegirl,withmostforlornregret;‘forshewasalwaysgoodtome!Sheneverspokeawordtomebutwhatwaspleasantandright.IsitlikelyIwouldtrytomakeherwhatIammyself,knowingwhatIammyself,sowell?WhenIlosteverythingthatmakeslifedear,theworstofallmythoughtswasthatIwaspartedforeverfromher!’

           Mr.Peggotty,standingwithonehandonthegunwaleoftheboat,andhiseyescastdown,puthisdisengagedhandbeforehisface.

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