Дэвид Копперфильд

I Look About Me, and Make a Discovery

           

           AtlastIrosetogotobed,muchtothereliefofthesleepywaiter,whohadgotthefidgetsinhislegs,andwastwistingthem,andhittingthem,andputtingthemthroughallkindsofcontortionsinhissmallpantry.Ingoingtowardsthedoor,Ipassedthepersonwhohadcomein,andsawhimplainly.Iturneddirectly,cameback,andlookedagain.Hedidnotknowme,butIknewhiminamoment.

           AtanothertimeImighthavewantedtheconfidenceorthedecisiontospeaktohim,andmighthaveputitoffuntilnextday,andmighthavelosthim.But,inthethenconditionofmymind,wheretheplaywasstillrunninghigh,hisformerprotectionofmeappearedsodeservingofmygratitude,andmyoldloveforhimoverflowedmybreastsofreshlyandspontaneously,thatIwentuptohimatonce,withafast-beatingheart,andsaid:

           ‘Steerforth!won’tyouspeaktome?’

           Helookedatmejustasheusedtolook,sometimesbutIsawnorecognitioninhisface.

           ‘Youdon’trememberme,Iamafraid,’saidI.

           ‘MyGod!’hesuddenlyexclaimed.‘It’slittleCopperfield!’

           Igraspedhimbybothhands,andcouldnotletthemgo.Butforveryshame,andthefearthatitmightdispleasehim,Icouldhaveheldhimroundtheneckandcried.

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