Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           Andso,younggentleman,’headded,afterafewmoments’furtherrubbingofhischin,‘thatyoumaynotconsidermelong-windedaswellasshort-breathed,Ibelievethat’sallaboutit.’

           Astheyhadspokeninasubduedtone,whilespeakingofEm’ly,Ihadnodoubtthatshewasnear.Onmyaskingnow,ifthatwerenotso,Mr.Omernoddedyes,andnoddedtowardsthedooroftheparlour.MyhurriedinquiryifImightpeepin,wasansweredwithafreepermission;and,lookingthroughtheglass,Isawhersittingatherwork.Isawher,amostbeautifullittlecreature,withthecloudlessblueeyes,thathadlookedintomychildishheart,turnedlaughinglyuponanotherchildofMinnie’swhowasplayingnearher;withenoughofwilfulnessinherbrightfacetojustifywhatIhadheard;withmuchoftheoldcapriciouscoynesslurkinginit;butwithnothinginherprettylooks,Iamsure,butwhatwasmeantforgoodnessandforhappiness,andwhatwasonagoodandhappycourse.

           Thetuneacrosstheyardthatseemedasifitneverhadleftoff—alas!itwasthetunethatneverDOESleaveoffwasbeating,softly,allthewhile.

           ‘Wouldn’tyouliketostepin,’saidMr.Omer,‘andspeaktoher?Walkinandspeaktoher,sir!Makeyourselfathome!’

           Iwastoobashfultodosothen—Iwasafraidofconfusingher,andIwasnolessafraidofconfusingmyself.

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