Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           Notawordwasspokenwhenwefirstwentin;andtheDutchclockbythedresserseemed,inthesilence,toticktwiceasloudasusual.Em’lyspokefirst.

           ‘Marthawants,’shesaidtoHam,‘togotoLondon.’

           ‘WhytoLondon?’returnedHam.

           Hestoodbetweenthem,lookingontheprostrategirlwithamixtureofcompassionforher,andofjealousyofherholdinganycompanionshipwithherwhomhelovedsowell,whichIhavealwaysremembereddistinctly.Theybothspokeasifshewereill;inasoft,suppressedtonethatwasplainlyheard,althoughithardlyroseaboveawhisper.

           ‘Bettertherethanhere,’saidathirdvoicealoud—Martha’s,thoughshedidnotmove.‘Nooneknowsmethere.Everybodyknowsmehere.’

           ‘Whatwillshedothere?’inquiredHam.

           Sheliftedupherhead,andlookeddarklyroundathimforamoment;thenlaiditdownagain,andcurvedherrightarmaboutherneck,asawomaninafever,orinanagonyofpainfromashot,mighttwistherself.

           ‘Shewilltrytodowell,’saidlittleEm’ly.‘Youdon’tknowwhatshehassaidtous.Doeshe—dotheyaunt?’

           Peggottyshookherheadcompassionately.

           ‘I’lltry,’saidMartha,‘ifyou’llhelpmeaway.InevercandoworsethanIhavedonehere.Imaydobetter.

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