Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           

           Hercolourcameandwentoncemore;andoncemore,asshebentherhead,Isawthesamesadsmile.

           ‘Youwillwaitandseepapa,’saidAgnes,cheerfully,‘andpassthedaywithus?Perhapsyouwillsleepinyourownroom?Wealwayscallityours.’

           Icouldnotdothat,havingpromisedtoridebacktomyaunt’satnight;butIwouldpassthedaythere,joyfully.

           ‘Imustbeaprisonerforalittlewhile,’saidAgnes,‘butherearetheoldbooks,Trotwood,andtheoldmusic.’

           ‘Eventheoldflowersarehere,’saidI,lookinground;‘ortheoldkinds.’

           ‘Ihavefoundapleasure,’returnedAgnes,smiling,‘whileyouhavebeenabsent,inkeepingeverythingasitusedtobewhenwewerechildren.Forwewereveryhappythen,Ithink.’

           ‘Heavenknowswewere!’saidI.

           ‘Andeverylittlethingthathasremindedmeofmybrother,’saidAgnes,withhercordialeyesturnedcheerfullyuponme,‘hasbeenawelcomecompanion.Eventhis,’showingmethebasket-trifle,fullofkeys,stillhangingatherside,‘seemstojingleakindofoldtune!’

           Shesmiledagain,andwentoutatthedoorbywhichshehadcome.

           Itwasformetoguardthissisterlyaffectionwithreligiouscare.ItwasallthatIhadleftmyself,anditwasatreasure.

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