Дэвид Копперфильд

A Light Shines on My Way

           

           Myaunt,Imayobserve,allowedmyhorseontheforbiddenground,buthadnotatallrelentedtowardsthedonkeys.

           ‘Hewillbefreshenough,presently!’saidI.

           ‘Theridewilldohismastergood,atallevents,’observedmyaunt,glancingatthepapersonmytable.‘Ah,child,youpassagoodmanyhourshere!Ineverthought,whenIusedtoreadbooks,whatworkitwastowritethem.’

           ‘It’sworkenoughtoreadthem,sometimes,’Ireturned.‘Astothewriting,ithasitsowncharms,aunt.’

           ‘Ah!Isee!’saidmyaunt.‘Ambition,loveofapprobation,sympathy,andmuchmore,Isuppose?Well:goalongwithyou!’

           ‘Doyouknowanythingmore,’saidI,standingcomposedlybeforeher-shehadpattedmeontheshoulder,andsatdowninmychair‘ofthatattachmentofAgnes?’

           Shelookedupinmyfacealittlewhile,beforereplying:

           ‘IthinkIdo,Trot.’

           ‘Areyouconfirmedinyourimpression?’Iinquired.

           ‘IthinkIam,Trot.’

           Shelookedsosteadfastlyatme:withakindofdoubt,orpity,orsuspenseinheraffection:thatIsummonedthestrongerdeterminationtoshowheraperfectlycheerfulface.

           ‘Andwhatismore,Trotsaidmyaunt.

           ‘Yes!’

           ‘IthinkAgnesisgoingtobemarried.’

           ‘Godblessher!’saidI,cheerfully.

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