Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           Youcan’tbelievewhyshouldyou?asyllablethatcomesoutofmylips.Itwouldbeaburningshameuponyou,evennow,ifsheandIexchangedaword.Idon’tcomplain.Idon’tsaysheandIarealikeIknowthereisalong,longwaybetweenus.Ionlysay,withallmyguiltandwretchednessuponmyhead,thatIamgratefultoherfrommysoul,andloveher.Oh,don’tthinkthatallthepowerIhadoflovinganythingisquitewornout!Throwmeaway,asalltheworlddoes.KillmeforbeingwhatIam,andhavingeverknownher;butdon’tthinkthatofme!’

           Helookeduponher,whileshemadethissupplication,inawilddistractedmanner;and,whenshewassilent,gentlyraisedher.

           ‘Martha,’saidMr.Peggotty,‘GodforbidasIshouldjudgeyou.ForbidasI,ofallmen,shoulddothat,mygirl!Youdoen’tknowhalfthechangethat’scome,incourseoftime,uponme,whenyouthinkitlikely.Well!’hepausedamoment,thenwenton.‘Youdoen’tunderstandhow’tisthatthisheregentlemanandmehaswishedtospeaktoyou.Youdoen’tunderstandwhat’tiswehasaforeus.Listennow!’

           Hisinfluenceuponherwascomplete.Shestood,shrinkingly,beforehim,asifshewereafraidtomeethiseyes;butherpassionatesorrowwasquitehushedandmute.

           ‘Ifyouheerd,’saidMr.Peggotty,‘owtofwhatpassedbetweenMas’rDavyandme,th’nightwhenitsnewsohard,youknowasIhavebeenwheernotfurtoseekmydearniece.

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