Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Captivity

           

           ‘It’ssostupidathome,’shereplied,‘andMissMurdstoneissoabsurd!Shetalkssuchnonsenseaboutitsbeingnecessaryforthedaytobeaired,beforeIcomeout.Aired!’(Shelaughed,here,inthemostmelodiousmanner.)‘OnaSundaymorning,whenIdon’tpractise,Imustdosomething.SoItoldpapalastnightImustcomeout.Besides,it’sthebrightesttimeofthewholeday.Don’tyouthinkso?’

           Ihazardedaboldflight,andsaid(notwithoutstammering)thatitwasverybrighttomethen,thoughithadbeenverydarktomeaminutebefore.

           ‘Doyoumeanacompliment?’saidDora,‘orthattheweatherhasreallychanged?’

           Istammeredworsethanbefore,inreplyingthatImeantnocompliment,buttheplaintruth;thoughIwasnotawareofanychangehavingtakenplaceintheweather.Itwasinthestateofmyownfeelings,Iaddedbashfully:toclenchtheexplanation.

           IneversawsuchcurlshowcouldI,forthereneverweresuchcurls!asthosesheshookouttohideherblushes.Astothestrawhatandblueribbonswhichwasonthetopofthecurls,ifIcouldonlyhavehungitupinmyroominBuckinghamStreet,whatapricelesspossessionitwouldhavebeen!

           ‘YouhavejustcomehomefromParis,’saidI.

           ‘Yes,’saidshe.‘Haveyoueverbeenthere?’

           ‘No.

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