Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           ‘Unquestionably,’saidI‘butIamthinking

           ‘Yes,Mas’rDavy?’

           ‘Iamthinking,’saidI,‘thatI’llgodownagaintoYarmouth.There’stime,andtospare,formetogoandcomebackbeforetheshipsails.Mymindisconstantlyrunningonhim,inhissolitude;toputthisletterofherwritinginhishandatthistime,andtoenableyoutotellher,inthemomentofparting,thathehasgotit,willbeakindnesstobothofthem.Isolemnlyacceptedhiscommission,deargoodfellow,andcannotdischargeittoocompletely.Thejourneyisnothingtome.Iamrestless,andshallbebetterinmotion.I’llgodowntonight.’

           Thoughheanxiouslyendeavouredtodissuademe,Isawthathewasofmymind;andthis,ifIhadrequiredtobeconfirmedinmyintention,wouldhavehadtheeffect.Hewentroundtothecoachoffice,atmyrequest,andtookthebox-seatformeonthemail.IntheeveningIstarted,bythatconveyance,downtheroadIhadtraversedundersomanyvicissitudes.

           ‘Don’tyouthinkthat,’Iaskedthecoachman,inthefirststageoutofLondon,‘averyremarkablesky?Idon’tremembertohaveseenonelikeit.’

           ‘NorInotequaltoit,’hereplied.‘That’swind,sir.There’llbemischiefdoneatsea,Iexpect,beforelong.

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