Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           Shewasalwayslabouring,insecret,underthisdistress;andbeingdelicateanddowncastatthetimeofhislastrepulseforitwasnotthefirst,bymanypinedawayanddied.SheleftmeAgnes,twoweeksold;andthegreyhairthatyourecollectmewith,whenyoufirstcame.’HekissedAgnesonhercheek.

           ‘Myloveformydearchildwasadiseasedlove,butmymindwasallunhealthythen.Isaynomoreofthat.Iamnotspeakingofmyself,Trotwood,butofhermother,andofher.IfIgiveyouanycluetowhatIam,ortowhatIhavebeen,youwillunravelit,Iknow.WhatAgnesis,Ineednotsay.Ihavealwaysreadsomethingofherpoormother’sstory,inhercharacter;andsoItellityoutonight,whenwethreeareagaintogether,aftersuchgreatchanges.Ihavetolditall.’

           Hisbowedhead,andherangel-faceandfilialduty,derivedamorepatheticmeaningfromitthantheyhadhadbefore.IfIhadwantedanythingbywhichtomarkthisnightofourre-union,Ishouldhavefounditinthis.

           Agnesroseupfromherfather’sside,beforelong;andgoingsoftlytoherpiano,playedsomeoftheoldairstowhichwehadoftenlistenedinthatplace.

           ‘Haveyouanyintentionofgoingawayagain?’Agnesaskedme,asIwasstandingby.

           ‘Whatdoesmysistersaytothat?’

           ‘Ihopenot.’

           ‘ThenIhavenosuchintention,Agnes.’

           ‘Ithinkyououghtnot,Trotwood,sinceyouaskme,’shesaid,mildly.

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