Дэвид Копперфильд

A Light Shines on My Way

           

           ‘Godblessher!’saidmyaunt,‘andherhusbandtoo!’

           Iechoedit,partedfrommyaunt,andwentlightlydownstairs,mounted,androdeaway.TherewasgreaterreasonthanbeforetodowhatIhadresolvedtodo.

           HowwellIrecollectthewintryride!Thefrozenparticlesofice,brushedfromthebladesofgrassbythewind,andborneacrossmyface;thehardclatterofthehorse’shoofs,beatingatuneupontheground;thestiff-tilledsoil;thesnowdrift,lightlyeddyinginthechalk-pitasthebreezeruffledit;thesmokingteamwiththewaggonofoldhay,stoppingtobreatheonthehill-top,andshakingtheirbellsmusically;thewhitenedslopesandsweepsofDown-landlyingagainstthedarksky,asiftheyweredrawnonahugeslate!

           IfoundAgnesalone.Thelittlegirlshadgonetotheirownhomesnow,andshewasalonebythefire,reading.Sheputdownherbookonseeingmecomein;andhavingwelcomedmeasusual,tookherwork-basketandsatinoneoftheold-fashionedwindows.

           Isatbesideheronthewindow-seat,andwetalkedofwhatIwasdoing,andwhenitwouldbedone,andoftheprogressIhadmadesincemylastvisit.Agneswasverycheerful;andlaughinglypredictedthatIshouldsoonbecometoofamoustobetalkedto,onsuchsubjects.

           ‘SoImakethemostofthepresenttime,yousee,’saidAgnes,‘andtalktoyouwhileImay.

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