Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           

           CanIsayofherfacealteredasIhavereasontorememberit,perishedasIknowitisthatitisgone,whenhereitcomesbeforemeatthisinstant,asdistinctasanyfacethatImaychoosetolookoninacrowdedstreet?CanIsayofherinnocentandgirlishbeauty,thatitfaded,andwasnomore,whenitsbreathfallsonmycheeknow,asitfellthatnight?CanIsaysheeverchanged,whenmyremembrancebringsherbacktolife,thusonly;and,truertoitslovingyouththanIhavebeen,ormaneveris,stillholdsfastwhatitcherishedthen?

           IwriteofherjustasshewaswhenIhadgonetobedafterthistalk,andshecametobidmegoodnight.Shekneeleddownplayfullybythesideofthebed,andlayingherchinuponherhands,andlaughing,said:

           ‘Whatwasittheysaid,Davy?Tellmeagain.Ican’tbelieveit.’

           ‘“Bewitching”’Ibegan.

           Mymotherputherhandsuponmylipstostopme.

           ‘Itwasneverbewitching,’shesaid,laughing.‘Itnevercouldhavebeenbewitching,Davy.NowIknowitwasn’t!’

           ‘Yes,itwas.“BewitchingMrs.Copperfield”,’Irepeatedstoutly.‘And,“pretty.”’

           ‘No,no,itwasneverpretty.Notpretty,’interposedmymother,layingherfingersonmylipsagain.

           ‘Yesitwas.“Prettylittlewidow.”’

           ‘Whatfoolish,impudentcreatures!’criedmymother,laughingandcoveringherface.

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