Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Captivity

           ThatIretiredtobedinamostmaudlinstateofmind,andgotupinacrisisoffeebleinfatuation.

           Itwasafinemorning,andearly,andIthoughtIwouldgoandtakeastrolldownoneofthosewire-archedwalks,andindulgemypassionbydwellingonherimage.Onmywaythroughthehall,Iencounteredherlittledog,whowascalledJipshortforGipsy.Iapproachedhimtenderly,forIlovedevenhim;butheshowedhiswholesetofteeth,gotunderachairexpresslytosnarl,andwouldn’thearoftheleastfamiliarity.

           Thegardenwascoolandsolitary.Iwalkedabout,wonderingwhatmyfeelingsofhappinesswouldbe,ifIcouldeverbecomeengagedtothisdearwonder.Astomarriage,andfortune,andallthat,IbelieveIwasalmostasinnocentlyundesigningthen,aswhenIlovedlittleEm’ly.Tobeallowedtocallher‘Dora’,towritetoher,todoteuponandworshipher,tohavereasontothinkthatwhenshewaswithotherpeopleshewasyetmindfulofme,seemedtomethesummitofhumanambitionIamsureitwasthesummitofmine.ThereisnodoubtwhateverthatIwasalackadaisicalyoungspooney;buttherewasapurityofheartinallthis,thatpreventsmyhavingquiteacontemptuousrecollectionofit,letmelaughasImay.

           Ihadnotbeenwalkinglong,whenIturnedacorner,andmether.Itingleagainfromheadtofootasmyrecollectionturnsthatcorner,andmypenshakesinmyhand.

           ‘Youareoutearly,MissSpenlow,’saidI.

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