Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           Buthiseasy,spiritedgoodhumour;hisgenialmanner,hishandsomelooks,hisnaturalgiftofadaptinghimselftowhomsoeverhepleased,andmakingdirect,whenhecaredtodoit,tothemainpointofinterestinanybody’sheart;boundhertohimwhollyinfiveminutes.Hismannertome,alone,wouldhavewonher.But,throughallthesecausescombined,Isincerelybelieveshehadakindofadorationforhimbeforeheleftthehousethatnight.

           HestayedtherewithmetodinnerifIweretosaywillingly,Ishouldnothalfexpresshowreadilyandgaily.HewentintoMr.Barkis’sroomlikelightandair,brighteningandrefreshingitasifhewerehealthyweather.Therewasnonoise,noeffort,noconsciousness,inanythinghedid;butineverythinganindescribablelightness,aseemingimpossibilityofdoinganythingelse,ordoinganythingbetter,whichwassograceful,sonatural,andagreeable,thatitovercomesme,evennow,intheremembrance.

           Wemademerryinthelittleparlour,wheretheBookofMartyrs,unthumbedsincemytime,waslaidoutuponthedeskasofold,andwhereInowturnedoveritsterrificpictures,rememberingtheoldsensationstheyhadawakened,butnotfeelingthem.WhenPeggottyspokeofwhatshecalledmyroom,andofitsbeingreadyformeatnight,andofherhopingIwouldoccupyit,beforeIcouldsomuchaslookatSteerforth,hesitating,hewaspossessedofthewholecase.

           ‘Ofcourse,’hesaid.‘You’llsleephere,whilewestay,andIshallsleepatthehotel.

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