Дэвид Копперфильд

Another Retrospect

           

           Whatastrangerestandpauseinmylifethereseemstobeandinalllife,withindoorsandwithoutwhenIsitinthequiet,shaded,orderlyroom,withtheblueeyesofmychild-wifeturnedtowardsme,andherlittlefingerstwiningroundmyhand!ManyandmanyanhourIsitthus;but,ofallthosetimes,threetimescomethefreshestonmymind.

           Itismorning;andDora,madesotrimbymyaunt’shands,showsmehowherprettyhairwillcurluponthepillowyet,anhowlongandbrightitis,andhowshelikestohaveitlooselygatheredinthatnetshewears.

           ‘NotthatIamvainofit,now,youmockingboy,’shesays,whenIsmile;‘butbecauseyouusedtosayyouthoughtitsobeautiful;andbecause,whenIfirstbegantothinkaboutyou,Iusedtopeepintheglass,andwonderwhetheryouwouldlikeverymuchtohavealockofit.Ohwhatafoolishfellowyouwere,Doady,whenIgaveyouone!’

           ‘ThatwasonthedaywhenyouwerepaintingtheflowersIhadgivenyou,Dora,andwhenItoldyouhowmuchinloveIwas.’

           ‘Ah!butIdidn’tliketotellyou,’saysDora,‘then,howIhadcriedoverthem,becauseIbelievedyoureallylikedme!WhenIcanrunaboutagainasIusedtodo,Doady,letusgoandseethoseplaceswhereweweresuchasillycouple,shallwe?Andtakesomeoftheoldwalks?Andnotforgetpoorpapa?’

           ‘Yes,wewill,andhavesomehappydays.Soyoumustmakehastetogetwell,mydear.

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Roboto Lora
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