Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           WecametoIpswichverylate,havinghadtofighteveryinchofgroundsinceweweretenmilesoutofLondon;andfoundaclusterofpeopleinthemarket-place,whohadrisenfromtheirbedsinthenight,fearfuloffallingchimneys.Someofthese,congregatingabouttheinn-yardwhilewechangedhorses,toldusofgreatsheetsofleadhavingbeenrippedoffahighchurch-tower,andflungintoaby-street,whichtheythenblockedup.Othershadtotellofcountrypeople,cominginfromneighbouringvillages,whohadseengreattreeslyingtornoutoftheearth,andwholericksscatteredabouttheroadsandfields.Still,therewasnoabatementinthestorm,butitblewharder.

           Aswestruggledon,nearerandnearertothesea,fromwhichthismightywindwasblowingdeadonshore,itsforcebecamemoreandmoreterrific.Longbeforewesawthesea,itsspraywasonourlips,andshoweredsaltrainuponus.Thewaterwasout,overmilesandmilesoftheflatcountryadjacenttoYarmouth;andeverysheetandpuddlelasheditsbanks,andhaditsstressoflittlebreakerssettingheavilytowardsus.Whenwecamewithinsightofthesea,thewavesonthehorizon,caughtatintervalsabovetherollingabyss,werelikeglimpsesofanothershorewithtowersandbuildings.Whenatlastwegotintothetown,thepeoplecameouttotheirdoors,allaslant,andwithstreaminghair,makingawonderofthemailthathadcomethroughsuchanight.

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