Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           -butIinformedmyselfofthehouratwhichsheleftofanevening,inorderthatourvisitmightbetimedaccordingly;andtakingleaveofMr.Omer,andhisprettydaughter,andherlittlechildren,wentawaytomydearoldPeggotty’s.

           Hereshewas,inthetiledkitchen,cookingdinner!ThemomentIknockedatthedoorsheopenedit,andaskedmewhatIpleasedtowant.Ilookedatherwithasmile,butshegavemenosmileinreturn.Ihadneverceasedtowritetoher,butitmusthavebeensevenyearssincewehadmet.

           ‘IsMr.Barkisathome,ma’am?’Isaid,feigningtospeakroughlytoher.

           ‘He’sathome,sir,’returnedPeggotty,‘buthe’sbadabedwiththerheumatics.’

           ‘Don’thegoovertoBlunderstonenow?’Iasked.

           ‘Whenhe’swellhedo,’sheanswered.

           ‘DoYOUevergothere,Mrs.Barkis?’

           Shelookedatmemoreattentively,andInoticedaquickmovementofherhandstowardseachother.

           ‘BecauseIwanttoaskaquestionaboutahousethere,thattheycallthewhatisit?theRookery,’saidI.

           Shetookastepbackward,andputoutherhandsinanundecidedfrightenedway,asiftokeepmeoff.

           ‘Peggotty!’Icriedtoher.

           Shecried,‘Mydarlingboy!’andwebothburstintotears,andwerelockedinoneanother’sarms.

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