Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Peggotty’s Dream Comes True

           

           ‘Canyoucomewithme?’sheinquired,inanagitatedwhisper.‘Ihavebeentohim,andheisnotathome.Iwrotedownwherehewastocome,andleftitonhistablewithmyownhand.Theysaidhewouldnotbeoutlong.Ihavetidingsforhim.Canyoucomedirectly?’

           Myanswerwas,topassoutatthegateimmediately.Shemadeahastygesturewithherhand,asiftoentreatmypatienceandmysilence,andturnedtowardsLondon,whence,asherdressbetokened,shehadcomeexpeditiouslyonfoot.

           Iaskedherifthatwerenotourdestination?OnhermotioningYes,withthesamehastygestureasbefore,Istoppedanemptycoachthatwascomingby,andwegotintoit.WhenIaskedherwherethecoachmanwastodrive,sheanswered,‘AnywherenearGoldenSquare!Andquick!’thenshrunkintoacorner,withonetremblinghandbeforeherface,andtheothermakingtheformergesture,asifshecouldnotbearavoice.

           Nowmuchdisturbed,anddazzledwithconflictinggleamsofhopeanddread,Ilookedatherforsomeexplanation.Butseeinghowstronglyshedesiredtoremainquiet,andfeelingthatitwasmyownnaturalinclinationtoo,atsuchatime,Ididnotattempttobreakthesilence.Weproceededwithoutawordbeingspoken.Sometimessheglancedoutofthewindow,asthoughshethoughtweweregoingslowly,thoughindeedweweregoingfast;butotherwiseremainedexactlyasatfirst.

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