Дэвид Копперфильд

The Beginning of a Longer Journey

           AsIhadasorrowfulwishtoseetheoldplaceoncemore,beforeitwaslockedup,Iengagedtomeetthemthereintheevening.ButIsoarrangedit,asthatIshouldmeetHamfirst.

           Itwaseasytocomeinhisway,asIknewwhereheworked.Imethimataretiredpartofthesands,whichIknewhewouldcross,andturnedbackwithhim,thathemighthaveleisuretospeaktomeifhereallywished.Ihadnotmistakentheexpressionofhisface.Wehadwalkedbutalittlewaytogether,whenhesaid,withoutlookingatme:

           ‘Mas’rDavy,haveyouseenher?’

           ‘Onlyforamoment,whenshewasinaswoon,’Isoftlyanswered.

           Wewalkedalittlefarther,andhesaid:

           ‘Mas’rDavy,shallyouseeher,d’yethink?’

           ‘Itwouldbetoopainfultoher,perhaps,’saidI.

           ‘Ihavethowtofthat,’hereplied.‘So‘twould,sir,so‘twould.’

           ‘But,Ham,’saidI,gently,‘ifthereisanythingthatIcouldwritetoher,foryou,incaseIcouldnottellit;ifthereisanythingyouwouldwishtomakeknowntoherthroughme;Ishouldconsideritasacredtrust.’

           ‘Iamsureon’t.Ithankee,sir,mostkind!IthinktheerissomethingIcouldwishsaidorwrote.’

           ‘Whatisit?’

           Wewalkedalittlefartherinsilence,andthenhespoke.

           ‘‘Tan’tthatIforgiveher.‘Tan’tthatsomuch.

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