Дэвид Копперфильд

The New Wound, and the Old

           Shehadthentakentheimpassivefigureinherarms,and,stilluponherknees,wasweepingoverit,kissingit,callingtoit,rockingittoandfrouponherbosomlikeachild,andtryingeverytendermeanstorousethedormantsenses.Nolongerafraidofleavingher,Inoiselesslyturnedbackagain;andalarmedthehouseasIwentout.

           Laterintheday,Ireturned,andwelaidhiminhismother’sroom.Shewasjustthesame,theytoldme;MissDartleneverlefther;doctorswereinattendance,manythingshadbeentried;butshelaylikeastatue,exceptforthelowsoundnowandthen.

           Iwentthroughthedrearyhouse,anddarkenedthewindows.Thewindowsofthechamberwherehelay,Idarkenedlast.Ilifteduptheleadenhand,andheldittomyheart;andalltheworldseemeddeathandsilence,brokenonlybyhismother’smoaning.

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