Дэвид Копперфильд

The New Wound, and the Old

           Yes,hedid!Manyatime,whenyouwereputoffwithaslightword,hehastakenMetohisheart!’

           Shesaiditwithatauntingprideinthemidstofherfrenzyforitwaslittlelessyetwithaneagerremembranceofit,inwhichthesmoulderingembersofagentlerfeelingkindledforthemoment.

           ‘IdescendedasImighthaveknownIshould,butthathefascinatedmewithhisboyishcourtshipintoadoll,atriflefortheoccupationofanidlehour,tobedropped,andtakenup,andtrifledwith,astheinconstanthumourtookhim.Whenhegrewweary,Igrewweary.Ashisfancydiedout,IwouldnomorehavetriedtostrengthenanypowerIhad,thanIwouldhavemarriedhimonhisbeingforcedtotakemeforhiswife.Wefellawayfromoneanotherwithoutaword.Perhapsyousawit,andwerenotsorry.Sincethen,Ihavebeenameredisfiguredpieceoffurniturebetweenyouboth;havingnoeyes,noears,nofeelings,noremembrances.Moan?Moanforwhatyoumadehim;notforyourlove.Itellyouthatthetimewas,whenIlovedhimbetterthanyoueverdid!’

           Shestoodwithherbrightangryeyesconfrontingthewidestare,andthesetface;andsoftenednomore,whenthemoaningwasrepeated,thanifthefacehadbeenapicture.

           ‘MissDartle,’saidI,‘ifyoucanbesoobdurateasnottofeelforthisafflictedmother

           ‘Whofeelsforme?’shesharplyretorted.‘Shehassownthis.

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