Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           

           Suddenlytherepassedusevidentlyfollowingthemayoungwomanwhoseapproachwehadnotobserved,butwhosefaceIsawasshewentby,andthoughtIhadafaintremembranceof.Shewaslightlydressed;lookedbold,andhaggard,andflaunting,andpoor;butseemed,forthetime,tohavegivenallthattothewindwhichwasblowing,andtohavenothinginhermindbutgoingafterthem.Asthedarkdistantlevel,absorbingtheirfiguresintoitself,leftbutitselfvisiblebetweenusandtheseaandclouds,herfiguredisappearedinlikemanner,stillnonearertothemthanbefore.

           ‘Thatisablackshadowtobefollowingthegirl,’saidSteerforth,standingstill;‘whatdoesitmean?’

           HespokeinalowvoicethatsoundedalmoststrangetoMe.

           ‘Shemusthaveitinhermindtobegofthem,Ithink,’saidI.

           ‘Abeggarwouldbenonovelty,’saidSteerforth;‘butitisastrangethingthatthebeggarshouldtakethatshapetonight.’

           ‘Why?’Iasked.

           ‘Fornobetterreason,truly,thanbecauseIwasthinking,’hesaid,afterapause,‘ofsomethinglikeit,whenitcameby.WheretheDevildiditcomefrom,Iwonder!’

           ‘Fromtheshadowofthiswall,Ithink,’saidI,asweemergeduponaroadonwhichawallabutted.

           ‘It’sgone!’hereturned,lookingoverhisshoulder.‘Andallillgowithit.

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