Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           ‘Yourgrowingreputationandsuccessenlargeyourpowerofdoinggood;andifIcouldsparemybrother,’withhereyesuponme,‘perhapsthetimecouldnot.’

           ‘WhatIam,youhavemademe,Agnes.Youshouldknowbest.’

           ‘Imadeyou,Trotwood?’

           ‘Yes!Agnes,mydeargirl!’Isaid,bendingoverher.‘Itriedtotellyou,whenwemettoday,somethingthathasbeeninmythoughtssinceDoradied.Youremember,whenyoucamedowntomeinourlittleroompointingupward,Agnes?’

           ‘Oh,Trotwood!’shereturned,hereyesfilledwithtears.‘Soloving,soconfiding,andsoyoung!CanIeverforget?’

           ‘Asyouwerethen,mysister,Ihaveoftenthoughtsince,youhaveeverbeentome.Everpointingupward,Agnes;everleadingmetosomethingbetter;everdirectingmetohigherthings!’

           Sheonlyshookherhead;throughhertearsIsawthesamesadquietsmile.

           ‘AndIamsogratefultoyouforit,Agnes,soboundtoyou,thatthereisnonamefortheaffectionofmyheart.Iwantyoutoknow,yetdon’tknowhowtotellyou,thatallmylifelongIshalllookuptoyou,andbeguidedbyyou,asIhavebeenthroughthedarknessthatispast.Whateverbetides,whatevernewtiesyoumayform,whateverchangesmaycomebetweenus,Ishallalwayslooktoyou,andloveyou,asIdonow,andhavealwaysdone.Youwillalwaysbemysolaceandresource,asyouhavealwaysbeen.

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