Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           

           Atlength,myrestlessnessattainedtosuchapitch,thatIhurriedonmyclothes,andwentdownstairs.Inthelargekitchen,whereIdimlysawbaconandropesofonionshangingfromthebeams,thewatcherswereclusteredtogether,invariousattitudes,aboutatable,purposelymovedawayfromthegreatchimney,andbroughtnearthedoor.Aprettygirl,whohadherearsstoppedwithherapron,andhereyesuponthedoor,screamedwhenIappeared,supposingmetobeaspirit;buttheothershadmorepresenceofmind,andweregladofanadditiontotheircompany.Oneman,referringtothetopictheyhadbeendiscussing,askedmewhetherIthoughtthesoulsofthecollier-crewswhohadgonedown,wereoutinthestorm?

           Iremainedthere,Idaresay,twohours.Once,Iopenedtheyard-gate,andlookedintotheemptystreet.Thesand,thesea-weed,andtheflakesoffoam,weredrivingby;andIwasobligedtocallforassistancebeforeIcouldshutthegateagain,andmakeitfastagainstthewind.

           Therewasadarkgloominmysolitarychamber,whenIatlengthreturnedtoit;butIwastirednow,and,gettingintobedagain,felloffatoweranddownaprecipiceintothedepthsofsleep.Ihaveanimpressionthatforalongtime,thoughIdreamedofbeingelsewhereandinavarietyofscenes,itwasalwaysblowinginmydream.Atlength,Ilostthatfeebleholduponreality,andwasengagedwithtwodearfriends,butwhotheywereIdon’tknow,atthesiegeofsometowninaroarofcannonading.

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