Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           Peggottydealthiminhisunboundedjoy,asamarkofconfidenceandfriendship;butfeelingcalledupontosaysomethingtous,hesaid,withmuchfalteringandgreatdifficulty:

           ‘Shewarn’tnohigherthanyouwas,Mas’rDavy—whenyoufirstcome—whenIthoughtwhatshe’dgrowuptobe.Iseehergrownup-gent’lmen—likeaflower.I’dlaydownmylifeforher—Mas’rDavy—Oh!mostcontentandcheerful!She’smoretome—gent’lmen-than—she’salltomethateverIcanwant,andmorethaneverI—thaneverIcouldsay.I—Ilovehertrue.Thereain’tagent’lmaninalltheland—noryetsailinguponallthesea—thatcanlovehisladymorethanIloveher,thoughthere’smanyacommonman—wouldsaybetter—whathemeant.’

           IthoughtitaffectingtoseesuchasturdyfellowasHamwasnow,tremblinginthestrengthofwhathefeltfortheprettylittlecreaturewhohadwonhisheart.IthoughtthesimpleconfidencereposedinusbyMr.Peggottyandbyhimself,was,initself,affecting.Iwasaffectedbythestoryaltogether.Howfarmyemotionswereinfluencedbytherecollectionsofmychildhood,Idon’tknow.WhetherIhadcometherewithanylingeringfancythatIwasstilltolovelittleEm’ly,Idon’tknow.IknowthatIwasfilledwithpleasurebyallthis;but,atfirst,withanindescribablysensitivepleasure,thataverylittlewouldhavechangedtopain.

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