Дэвид Копперфильд

Absence

           Ienteronitnow.Icannotsocompletelypenetratethemysteryofmyownheart,astoknowwhenIbegantothinkthatImighthavesetitsearliestandbrightesthopesonAgnes.Icannotsayatwhatstageofmygriefitfirstbecameassociatedwiththereflection,that,inmywaywardboyhood,Ihadthrownawaythetreasureofherlove.IbelieveImayhaveheardsomewhisperofthatdistantthought,intheoldunhappylossorwantofsomethingnevertoberealized,ofwhichIhadbeensensible.Butthethoughtcameintomymindasanewreproachandnewregret,whenIwasleftsosadandlonelyintheworld.

           If,atthattime,Ihadbeenmuchwithher,Ishould,intheweaknessofmydesolation,havebetrayedthis.ItwaswhatIremotelydreadedwhenIwasfirstimpelledtostayawayfromEngland.Icouldnothavebornetolosethesmallestportionofhersisterlyaffection;yet,inthatbetrayal,Ishouldhavesetaconstraintbetweenushithertounknown.

           Icouldnotforgetthatthefeelingwithwhichshenowregardedmehadgrownupinmyownfreechoiceandcourse.ThatifshehadeverlovedmewithanotherloveandIsometimesthoughtthetimewaswhenshemighthavedonesoIhadcastitaway.Itwasnothing,now,thatIhadaccustomedmyselftothinkofher,whenwewerebothmerechildren,asonewhowasfarremovedfrommywildfancies.Ihadbestowedmypassionatetendernessuponanotherobject;andwhatImighthavedone,Ihadnotdone;andwhatAgneswastome,Iandherownnoblehearthadmadeher.

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