Дэвид Копперфильд

Agnes

           UntilIdie,mydearestsister,Ishallseeyoualwaysbeforeme,pointingupward!’

           Sheputherhandinmine,andtoldmeshewasproudofme,andofwhatIsaid;althoughIpraisedherveryfarbeyondherworth.Thenshewentonsoftlyplaying,butwithoutremovinghereyesfromme.‘Doyouknow,whatIhaveheardtonight,Agnes,’saidI,strangelyseemstobeapartofthefeelingwithwhichIregardedyouwhenIsawyoufirstwithwhichIsatbesideyouinmyroughschool-days?’

           ‘YouknewIhadnomother,’sherepliedwithasmile,‘andfeltkindlytowardsme.’

           ‘Morethanthat,Agnes,Iknew,almostasifIhadknownthisstory,thattherewassomethinginexplicablygentleandsoftened,surroundingyou;somethingthatmighthavebeensorrowfulinsomeoneelse(asIcannowunderstanditwas),butwasnotsoinyou.’

           Shesoftlyplayedon,lookingatmestill.

           ‘Willyoulaughatmycherishingsuchfancies,Agnes?’

           ‘No!’

           ‘OratmysayingthatIreallybelieveIfelt,eventhen,thatyoucouldbefaithfullyaffectionateagainstalldiscouragement,andneverceasetobeso,untilyouceasedtolive?Willyoulaughatsuchadream?’

           ‘Oh,no!Oh,no!’

           Foraninstant,adistressfulshadowcrossedherface;but,eveninthestartitgaveme,itwasgone;andshewasplayingon,andlookingatmewithherowncalmsmile

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