Дэвид Копперфильд

I Make Another Beginning

           

           Weaccordinglywentupawonderfuloldstaircase;withabalustradesobroadthatwemighthavegoneupthat,almostaseasily;andintoashadyolddrawing-room,lightedbysomethreeorfourofthequaintwindowsIhadlookedupatfromthestreet:whichhadoldoakseatsinthem,thatseemedtohavecomeofthesametreesastheshiningoakfloor,andthegreatbeamsintheceiling.Itwasaprettilyfurnishedroom,withapianoandsomelivelyfurnitureinredandgreen,andsomeflowers.Itseemedtobealloldnooksandcorners;andineverynookandcornertherewassomequeerlittletable,orcupboard,orbookcase,orseat,orsomethingorother,thatmademethinktherewasnotsuchanothergoodcornerintheroom;untilIlookedatthenextone,andfounditequaltoit,ifnotbetter.Oneverythingtherewasthesameairofretirementandcleanlinessthatmarkedthehouseoutside.

           Mr.Wickfieldtappedatadoorinacornerofthepanelledwall,andagirlofaboutmyownagecamequicklyoutandkissedhim.Onherface,Isawimmediatelytheplacidandsweetexpressionoftheladywhosepicturehadlookedatmedownstairs.Itseemedtomyimaginationasiftheportraithadgrownwomanly,andtheoriginalremainedachild.Althoughherfacewasquitebrightandhappy,therewasatranquillityaboutit,andaboutheraquiet,good,calmspiritthatIneverhaveforgotten;thatIshallneverforget.Thiswashislittlehousekeeper,hisdaughterAgnes,Mr.Wickfieldsaid.

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