Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           Thisgrewsostrongwithme,thatIresolvedtogobacktotheyardbeforeItookmydinner,andasktheboat-builderifhethoughthisattemptingtoreturnbyseaatalllikely?Ifhegavemetheleastreasontothinkso,IwouldgoovertoLowestoftandpreventitbybringinghimwithme.

           Ihastilyorderedmydinner,andwentbacktotheyard.Iwasnonetoosoon;fortheboat-builder,withalanterninhishand,waslockingtheyard-gate.HequitelaughedwhenIaskedhimthequestion,andsaidtherewasnofear;nomaninhissenses,oroutofthem,wouldputoffinsuchagaleofwind,leastofallHamPeggotty,whohadbeenborntoseafaring.

           Sosensibleofthis,beforehand,thatIhadreallyfeltashamedofdoingwhatIwasneverthelessimpelledtodo,Iwentbacktotheinn.Ifsuchawindcouldrise,Ithinkitwasrising.Thehowlandroar,therattlingofthedoorsandwindows,therumblinginthechimneys,theapparentrockingoftheveryhousethatshelteredme,andtheprodigioustumultofthesea,weremorefearfulthaninthemorning.Buttherewasnowagreatdarknessbesides;andthatinvestedthestormwithnewterrors,realandfanciful.

           Icouldnoteat,Icouldnotsitstill,Icouldnotcontinuesteadfasttoanything.Somethingwithinme,faintlyansweringtothestormwithout,tossedupthedepthsofmymemoryandmadeatumultinthem.Yet,inallthehurryofmythoughts,wildrunningwiththethunderingsea,thestorm,andmyuneasinessregardingHamwerealwaysinthefore-ground.

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