Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           

           Iremarkedthatmymother,thoughshesmiledwhenPeggottylookedather,becamemoreseriousandthoughtful.Ihadseenatfirstthatshewaschanged.Herfacewasveryprettystill,butitlookedcareworn,andtoodelicate;andherhandwassothinandwhitethatitseemedtometobealmosttransparent.ButthechangetowhichInowreferwassuperaddedtothis:itwasinhermanner,whichbecameanxiousandfluttered.Atlastshesaid,puttingoutherhand,andlayingitaffectionatelyonthehandofheroldservant,

           ‘Peggotty,dear,youarenotgoingtobemarried?’

           ‘Me,ma’am?’returnedPeggotty,staring.‘Lordblessyou,no!’

           ‘Notjustyet?’saidmymother,tenderly.

           ‘Never!’criedPeggotty.

           Mymothertookherhand,andsaid:

           ‘Don’tleaveme,Peggotty.Staywithme.Itwillnotbeforlong,perhaps.WhatshouldIeverdowithoutyou!’

           ‘Meleaveyou,myprecious!’criedPeggotty.‘Notforalltheworldandhiswife.Why,what’sputthatinyoursillylittlehead?’ForPeggottyhadbeenusedofoldtotalktomymothersometimeslikeachild.

           Butmymothermadenoanswer,excepttothankher,andPeggottywentrunningoninherownfashion.

           ‘Meleaveyou?IthinkIseemyself.Peggottygoawayfromyou?Ishouldliketocatchheratit!No,no,no,’saidPeggotty,shakingherhead,andfoldingherarms;‘notshe,mydear.

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