Дэвид Копперфильд

Good and Bad Angels

           Itwentfrommewithashock,likeaballfiredfromarifle:buttheimageofAgnes,outragedbysomuchasathoughtofthisred-headedanimal’s,remainedinmymindwhenIlookedathim,sittingallawryasifhismeansoulgripedhisbody,andmademegiddy.Heseemedtoswellandgrowbeforemyeyes;theroomseemedfulloftheechoesofhisvoice;andthestrangefeeling(towhich,perhaps,nooneisquiteastranger)thatallthishadoccurredbefore,atsomeindefinitetime,andthatIknewwhathewasgoingtosaynext,tookpossessionofme.

           Atimelyobservationofthesenseofpowerthattherewasinhisface,didmoretobringbacktomyremembrancetheentreatyofAgnes,initsfullforce,thananyeffortIcouldhavemade.Iaskedhim,withabetterappearanceofcomposurethanIcouldhavethoughtpossibleaminutebefore,whetherhehadmadehisfeelingsknowntoAgnes.

           ‘Ohno,MasterCopperfield!’hereturned;‘ohdear,no!Nottoanyonebutyou.YouseeIamonlyjustemergingfrommylowlystation.IrestagooddealofhopeonherobservinghowusefulIamtoherfather(forItrusttobeveryusefultohimindeed,MasterCopperfield),andhowIsmooththewayforhim,andkeephimstraight.She’ssomuchattachedtoherfather,MasterCopperfield(oh,whatalovelythingitisinadaughter!),thatIthinkshemaycome,onhisaccount,tobekindtome.’

           Ifathomedthedepthoftherascal’swholescheme,andunderstoodwhyhelaiditbare.

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