Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Peggotty’s Dream Comes True

           Someattemptshadbeenmade,Inoticed,toinfusenewbloodintothisdwindlingframe,byrepairingthecostlyoldwood-workhereandtherewithcommondeal;butitwaslikethemarriageofareducedoldnobletoaplebeianpauper,andeachpartytotheill-assortedunionshrunkawayfromtheother.Severalofthebackwindowsonthestaircasehadbeendarkenedorwhollyblockedup.Inthosethatremained,therewasscarcelyanyglass;and,throughthecrumblingframesbywhichthebadairseemedalwaystocomein,andnevertogoout,Isaw,throughotherglasslesswindows,intootherhousesinasimilarcondition,andlookedgiddilydownintoawretchedyard,whichwasthecommondust-heapofthemansion.

           Weproceededtothetop-storeyofthehouse.Twoorthreetimes,bytheway,IthoughtIobservedintheindistinctlighttheskirtsofafemalefiguregoingupbeforeus.Asweturnedtoascendthelastflightofstairsbetweenusandtheroof,wecaughtafullviewofthisfigurepausingforamoment,atadoor.Thenitturnedthehandle,andwentin.

           ‘What’sthis!’saidMartha,inawhisper.‘Shehasgoneintomyroom.Idon’tknowher!’

           Iknewher.Ihadrecognizedherwithamazement,forMissDartle.

           IsaidsomethingtotheeffectthatitwasaladywhomIhadseenbefore,inafewwords,tomyconductress;andhadscarcelydoneso,whenweheardhervoiceintheroom,thoughnot,fromwherewestood,whatshewassaying.

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