Дэвид Копперфильд

Good and Bad Angels

           

           Ittookmesuchalongtimetowriteanansweratalltomysatisfaction,thatIdon’tknowwhattheticket-portercanhavethought,unlesshethoughtIwaslearningtowrite.Imusthavewrittenhalf-a-dozenanswersatleast.Ibeganone,‘HowcanIeverhope,mydearAgnes,toeffacefromyourremembrancethedisgustingimpression’thereIdidn’tlikeit,andthenItoreitup.Ibegananother,‘Shakespearehasobserved,mydearAgnes,howstrangeitisthatamanshouldputanenemyintohismouth’thatremindedmeofMarkham,anditgotnofarther.Ieventriedpoetry.Ibeganonenote,inasix-syllableline,‘Oh,donotremember’butthatassociateditselfwiththefifthofNovember,andbecameanabsurdity.Aftermanyattempts,Iwrote,‘MydearAgnes.Yourletterislikeyou,andwhatcouldIsayofitthatwouldbehigherpraisethanthat?Iwillcomeatfouro’clock.Affectionatelyandsorrowfully,T.C.’Withthismissive(whichIwasintwentymindsatonceaboutrecalling,assoonasitwasoutofmyhands),theticket-porteratlastdeparted.

           IfthedaywerehalfastremendoustoanyotherprofessionalgentlemaninDoctors’Commonsasitwastome,Isincerelybelievehemadesomeexpiationforhisshareinthatrottenoldecclesiasticalcheese.AlthoughIlefttheofficeathalfpastthree,andwasprowlingabouttheplaceofappointmentwithinafewminutesafterwards,theappointedtimewasexceededbyafullquarterofanhour,accordingtotheclockofSt.

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