Дэвид Копперфильд

The New Wound, and the Old

           Lethermoanfortheharvestthatshereapstoday!’

           ‘AndifhisfaultsIbegan.

           ‘Faults!’shecried,burstingintopassionatetears.‘Whodaresmalignhim?Hehadasoulworthmillionsofthefriendstowhomhestooped!’

           ‘Noonecanhavelovedhimbetter,noonecanholdhimindearerremembrancethanI,’Ireplied.‘Imeanttosay,ifyouhavenocompassionforhismother;orifhisfaultsyouhavebeenbitteronthem

           ‘It’sfalse,’shecried,tearingherblackhair;‘Ilovedhim!’

           ‘-ifhisfaultscannot,’Iwenton,‘bebanishedfromyourremembrance,insuchanhour;lookatthatfigure,evenasoneyouhaveneverseenbefore,andrenderitsomehelp!’

           Allthistime,thefigurewasunchanged,andlookedunchangeable.Motionless,rigid,staring;moaninginthesamedumbwayfromtimetotime,withthesamehelplessmotionofthehead;butgivingnoothersignoflife.MissDartlesuddenlykneeleddownbeforeit,andbegantoloosenthedress.

           ‘Acurseuponyou!’shesaid,lookingroundatme,withamingledexpressionofrageandgrief.‘Itwasinanevilhourthatyouevercamehere!Acurseuponyou!Go!’

           Afterpassingoutoftheroom,Ihurriedbacktoringthebell,thesoonertoalarmtheservants

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