Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           

           Thethunderofthecannonwassoloudandincessant,thatIcouldnothearsomethingImuchdesiredtohear,untilImadeagreatexertionandawoke.Itwasbroaddayeightornineo’clock;thestormraging,inlieuofthebatteries;andsomeoneknockingandcallingatmydoor.

           ‘Whatisthematter?’Icried.

           ‘Awreck!Closeby!’

           Isprungoutofbed,andasked,whatwreck?

           ‘Aschooner,fromSpainorPortugal,ladenwithfruitandwine.Makehaste,sir,ifyouwanttoseeher!It’sthought,downonthebeach,she’llgotopieceseverymoment.’

           Theexcitedvoicewentclamouringalongthestaircase;andIwrappedmyselfinmyclothesasquicklyasIcould,andranintothestreet.

           Numbersofpeopleweretherebeforeme,allrunninginonedirection,tothebeach.Iranthesameway,outstrippingagoodmany,andsooncamefacingthewildsea.

           Thewindmightbythistimehavelulledalittle,thoughnotmoresensiblythanifthecannonadingIhaddreamedof,hadbeendiminishedbythesilencingofhalf-a-dozengunsoutofhundreds.Butthesea,havinguponittheadditionalagitationofthewholenight,wasinfinitelymoreterrificthanwhenIhadseenitlast.Everyappearanceithadthenpresented,boretheexpressionofbeingswelled;andtheheighttowhichthebreakersrose,and,lookingoveroneanother,boreoneanotherdown,androlledin,ininterminablehosts,wasmostappalling.

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