Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           

           ‘Yourhusband,aunt?Ithoughthehadbeendead!’

           ‘Deadtome,’returnedmyaunt,‘butliving.’

           Isatinsilentamazement.

           ‘BetseyTrotwooddon’tlookalikelysubjectforthetenderpassion,’saidmyaunt,composedly,‘butthetimewas,Trot,whenshebelievedinthatmanmostentirely.Whenshelovedhim,Trot,rightwell.Whentherewasnoproofofattachmentandaffectionthatshewouldnothavegivenhim.Herepaidherbybreakingherfortune,andnearlybreakingherheart.Sosheputallthatsortofsentiment,onceandforever,inagrave,andfilleditup,andflatteneditdown.’

           ‘Mydear,goodaunt!’

           ‘Ilefthim,’myauntproceeded,layingherhandasusualonthebackofmine,‘generously.Imaysayatthisdistanceoftime,Trot,thatIlefthimgenerously.Hehadbeensocrueltome,thatImighthaveeffectedaseparationoneasytermsformyself;butIdidnot.HesoonmadeducksanddrakesofwhatIgavehim,sanklowerandlower,marriedanotherwoman,Ibelieve,becameanadventurer,agambler,andacheat.Whatheisnow,yousee.Buthewasafine-lookingmanwhenImarriedhim,’saidmyaunt,withanechoofheroldprideandadmirationinhertone;‘andIbelievedhimIwasafool!tobethesoulofhonour!’

           Shegavemyhandasqueeze,andshookherhead.

           ‘Heisnothingtomenow,Trot-lessthannothing

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