Дэвид Копперфильд

A Retrospect

           WhenIcan’tmeethisdaughter,IgowhereIamlikelytomeethim.Tosay‘Howdoyoudo,Mr.Larkins?Aretheyoungladiesandallthefamilyquitewell?’seemssopointed,thatIblush.

           Ithinkcontinuallyaboutmyage.SayIamseventeen,andsaythatseventeenisyoungfortheeldestMissLarkins,whatofthat?Besides,Ishallbeone-and-twentyinnotimealmost.IregularlytakewalksoutsideMr.Larkins’shouseintheevening,thoughitcutsmetothehearttoseetheofficersgoin,ortohearthemupinthedrawing-room,wheretheeldestMissLarkinsplaystheharp.Ievenwalk,ontwoorthreeoccasions,inasickly,spoonymanner,roundandroundthehouseafterthefamilyaregonetobed,wonderingwhichistheeldestMissLarkins’schamber(andpitching,Idaresaynow,onMr.Larkins’sinstead);wishingthatafirewouldburstout;thattheassembledcrowdwouldstandappalled;thatI,dashingthroughthemwithaladder,mightrearitagainstherwindow,saveherinmyarms,gobackforsomethingshehadleftbehind,andperishintheflames.ForIamgenerallydisinterestedinmylove,andthinkIcouldbecontenttomakeafigurebeforeMissLarkins,andexpire.

           Generally,butnotalways.Sometimesbrightervisionsrisebeforeme.WhenIdress(theoccupationoftwohours),foragreatballgivenattheLarkins’s(theanticipationofthreeweeks),Iindulgemyfancywithpleasingimages.IpicturemyselftakingcouragetomakeadeclarationtoMissLarkins.

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