Дэвид Копперфильд

I Visit Steerforth at His Home, Again

           

           ‘MissDartle,’Ireturned,‘praydonotthink

           ‘Idon’t!’shesaid.‘Ohdearme,don’tsupposethatIthinkanything!Iamnotsuspicious.Ionlyaskaquestion.Idon’tstateanyopinion.Iwanttofoundanopiniononwhatyoutellme.Then,it’snotso?Well!Iamverygladtoknowit.’

           ‘Itcertainlyisnotthefact,’saidI,perplexed,‘thatIamaccountableforSteerforth’shavingbeenawayfromhomelongerthanusualifhehasbeen:whichIreallydon’tknowatthismoment,unlessIunderstanditfromyou.Ihavenotseenhimthislongwhile,untillastnight.’

           ‘No?’

           ‘Indeed,MissDartle,no!’

           Asshelookedfullatme,Isawherfacegrowsharperandpaler,andthemarksoftheoldwoundlengthenoutuntilitcutthroughthedisfiguredlip,anddeepintothenetherlip,andslanteddowntheface.Therewassomethingpositivelyawfultomeinthis,andinthebrightnessofhereyes,asshesaid,lookingfixedlyatme:

           ‘Whatishedoing?’

           Irepeatedthewords,moretomyselfthanher,beingsoamazed.

           ‘Whatishedoing?’shesaid,withaneagernessthatseemedenoughtoconsumeherlikeafire.‘Inwhatisthatmanassistinghim,whoneverlooksatmewithoutaninscrutablefalsehoodinhiseyes?Ifyouarehonourableandfaithful,Idon’taskyoutobetrayyourfriend.

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