Дэвид Копперфильд

I Look About Me, and Make a Discovery

           Markleham,takingaletterfromthechimney-pieceabovetheDoctor’shead,‘thedearfellowsaystotheDoctorhimselfwhereisit?Oh!“Iamsorrytoinformyouthatmyhealthissufferingseverely,andthatIfearImaybereducedtothenecessityofreturninghomeforatime,astheonlyhopeofrestoration.”That’sprettyplain,poorfellow!Hisonlyhopeofrestoration!ButAnnie’sletterisplainerstill.Annie,showmethatletteragain.’

           ‘Notnow,mama,’shepleadedinalowtone.

           ‘Mydear,youabsolutelyare,onsomesubjects,oneofthemostridiculouspersonsintheworld,’returnedhermother,‘andperhapsthemostunnaturaltotheclaimsofyourownfamily.Wenevershouldhaveheardoftheletteratall,Ibelieve,unlessIhadaskedforitmyself.Doyoucallthatconfidence,mylove,towardsDoctorStrong?Iamsurprised.Yououghttoknowbetter.’

           Theletterwasreluctantlyproduced;andasIhandedittotheoldlady,IsawhowtheunwillinghandfromwhichItookit,trembled.

           ‘Nowletussee,’saidMrs.Markleham,puttingherglasstohereye,‘wherethepassageis.“Theremembranceofoldtimes,mydearestAnnie”andsoforthit’snotthere.“TheamiableoldProctor”who’she?Dearme,Annie,howillegiblyyourcousinMaldonwrites,andhowstupidIam!“Doctor,”ofcourse.Ah!amiableindeed!’Heresheleftoff,tokissherfanagain,andshakeitattheDoctor,whowaslookingatusinastateofplacidsatisfaction.

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