Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Peggotty’s Dream Comes True

           

           ‘Oh,havesomemercyonme!’criedEmily.‘Showmesomecompassion,orIshalldiemad!’

           ‘Itwouldbenogreatpenance,’saidRosaDartle,‘foryourcrimes.Doyouknowwhatyouhavedone?Doyoueverthinkofthehomeyouhavelaidwaste?’

           ‘Oh,isthereevernightorday,whenIdon’tthinkofit!’criedEmily;andnowIcouldjustseeher,onherknees,withherheadthrownback,herpalefacelookingupward,herhandswildlyclaspedandheldout,andherhairstreamingabouther.‘Hasthereeverbeenasingleminute,wakingorsleeping,whenithasn’tbeenbeforeme,justasitusedtobeinthelostdayswhenIturnedmybackuponitforeverandforever!Oh,home,home!Ohdear,dearuncle,ifyouevercouldhaveknowntheagonyyourlovewouldcausemewhenIfellawayfromgood,youneverwouldhaveshownittomesoconstant,muchasyoufeltit;butwouldhavebeenangrytome,atleastonceinmylife,thatImighthavehadsomecomfort!Ihavenone,none,nocomfortuponearth,forallofthemwerealwaysfondofme!’Shedroppedonherface,beforetheimperiousfigureinthechair,withanimploringefforttoclasptheskirtofherdress.

           RosaDartlesatlookingdownuponher,asinflexibleasafigureofbrass.Herlipsweretightlycompressed,asifsheknewthatshemustkeepastrongconstraintuponherselfIwritewhatIsincerelybelieveorshewouldbetemptedtostrikethebeautifulformwithherfoot.

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