Дэвид Копперфильд

I Visit Steerforth at His Home, Again

           Whenweallfourwentoutwalkingintheafternoon,sheclosedherthinhandonmyarmlikeaspring,tokeepmeback,whileSteerforthandhismotherwentonoutofhearing:andthenspoketome.

           ‘Youhavebeenalongtime,’shesaid,‘withoutcominghere.Isyourprofessionreallysoengagingandinterestingastoabsorbyourwholeattention?IaskbecauseIalwayswanttobeinformed,whenIamignorant.Isitreally,though?’

           IrepliedthatIlikeditwellenough,butthatIcertainlycouldnotclaimsomuchforit.

           ‘Oh!Iamgladtoknowthat,becauseIalwaysliketobeputrightwhenIamwrong,’saidRosaDartle.‘Youmeanitisalittledry,perhaps?’

           ‘Well,’Ireplied;‘perhapsitwasalittledry.’

           ‘Oh!andthat’sareasonwhyyouwantreliefandchange—excitementandallthat?’saidshe.‘Ah!verytrue!Butisn’titalittle—Eh?—forhim;Idon’tmeanyou?’

           AquickglanceofhereyetowardsthespotwhereSteerforthwaswalking,withhismotherleaningonhisarm,showedmewhomshemeant;butbeyondthat,Iwasquitelost.AndIlookedso,Ihavenodoubt.

           ‘Don’tit—Idon’tsaythatitdoes,mindIwanttoknow—don’titratherengrosshim?Don’titmakehim,perhaps,alittlemoreremissthanusualinhisvisitstohisblindly-doting—eh?’Withanotherquickglanceatthem,andsuchaglanceatmeasseemedtolookintomyinnermostthoughts.

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