Дэвид Копперфильд

Domestic

           ThiswasthedisciplinetowhichItriedtobringmyheart,whenIbegantothink.Itmademysecondyearmuchhappierthanmyfirst;and,whatwasbetterstill,madeDora’slifeallsunshine.

           But,asthatyearworeon,Dorawasnotstrong.Ihadhopedthatlighterhandsthanminewouldhelptomouldhercharacter,andthatababy-smileuponherbreastmightchangemychild-wifetoawoman.Itwasnottobe.Thespiritflutteredforamomentonthethresholdofitslittleprison,and,unconsciousofcaptivity,tookwing.

           ‘WhenIcanrunaboutagain,asIusedtodo,aunt,’saidDora,‘IshallmakeJiprace.Heisgettingquiteslowandlazy.’

           ‘Isuspect,mydear,’saidmyauntquietlyworkingbyherside,‘hehasaworsedisorderthanthat.Age,Dora.’

           ‘Doyouthinkheisold?’saidDora,astonished.‘Oh,howstrangeitseemsthatJipshouldbeold!’

           ‘It’sacomplaintweareallliableto,LittleOne,aswegetoninlife,’saidmyaunt,cheerfully;‘Idon’tfeelmorefreefromitthanIusedtobe,Iassureyou.’

           ‘ButJip,’saidDora,lookingathimwithcompassion,‘evenlittleJip!Oh,poorfellow!’

           ‘Idaresayhe’lllastalongtimeyet,Blossom,’saidmyaunt,pattingDoraonthecheek,assheleanedoutofhercouchtolookatJip,whorespondedbystandingonhishindlegs,andbaulkinghimselfinvariousasthmaticattemptstoscrambleupbytheheadandshoulders.

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Roboto Lora
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