Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           Idon’tknowhowlongImaylive,orhowsoonImaydie;butIknowthatifIwascapsized,anynight,inagaleofwindinYarmouthRoadshere,andwastoseethetown-lightsshiningforthelasttimeovertherollersasIcouldn’tmakenoheadagainst,Icouldgodownquieterforthinking“There’samanashorethere,iron-truetomylittleEm’ly,Godblessher,andnowrongcantouchmyEm’lywhilesobeasthatmanlives.”’

           Mr.Peggotty,insimpleearnestness,wavedhisrightarm,asifhewerewavingitatthetown-lightsforthelasttime,andthen,exchanginganodwithHam,whoseeyehecaught,proceededasbefore.

           ‘Well!IcounselshimtospeaktoEm’ly.He’sbigenough,buthe’sbashfullerthanalittleun,andhedon’tlike.SoIspeak.“What!Him!”saysEm’ly.“HimthatI’veknow’dsointimatesomanyyears,andlikesomuch.Oh,Uncle!Inevercanhavehim.He’ssuchagoodfellow!”Igivesherakiss,andIsaysnomoretoherthan,“Mydear,you’rerighttospeakout,you’retochooseforyourself,you’reasfreeasalittlebird.”ThenIawaystohim,andIsays,“Iwishitcouldhavebeenso,butitcan’t.Butyoucanbothbeasyouwas,andwotIsaytoyouis,Beasyouwaswithher,likeaman.”Hesaystome,a-shakingofmyhand,“Iwill!”hesays.Andhewashonourableandmanfulfortwoyeargoingon,andwewasjustthesameathomehereasafore.’

           Mr.

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