Дэвид Копперфильд

Absence

           

           Iputtheletterinmybreast,andthoughtwhathadIbeenanhourago!WhenIheardthevoicesdieaway,andsawthequieteveningcloudgrowdim,andallthecoloursinthevalleyfade,andthegoldensnowuponthemountain-topsbecomearemotepartofthepalenightsky,yetfeltthatthenightwaspassingfrommymind,andallitsshadowsclearing,therewasnonamefortheloveIboreher,dearertome,henceforward,thaneveruntilthen.

           Ireadherlettermanytimes.IwrotetoherbeforeIslept.ItoldherthatIhadbeeninsoreneedofherhelp;thatwithoutherIwasnot,andIneverhadbeen,whatshethoughtme;butthatsheinspiredmetobethat,andIwouldtry.

           Ididtry.Inthreemonthsmore,ayearwouldhavepassedsincethebeginningofmysorrow.Ideterminedtomakenoresolutionsuntiltheexpirationofthosethreemonths,buttotry.Ilivedinthatvalley,anditsneighbourhood,allthetime.

           Thethreemonthsgone,Iresolvedtoremainawayfromhomeforsometimelonger;tosettlemyselfforthepresentinSwitzerland,whichwasgrowingdeartomeintheremembranceofthatevening;toresumemypen;towork.

           IresortedhumblywhitherAgneshadcommendedme;IsoughtoutNature,neversoughtinvain;andIadmittedtomybreastthehumaninterestIhadlatelyshrunkfrom.

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