Дэвид Копперфильд

I Visit Steerforth at His Home, Again

           Iaskyouonlytotellme,isitanger,isithatred,isitpride,isitrestlessness,isitsomewildfancy,isitlove,whatisit,thatisleadinghim?’

           ‘MissDartle,’Ireturned,‘howshallItellyou,sothatyouwillbelieveme,thatIknowofnothinginSteerforthdifferentfromwhattherewaswhenIfirstcamehere?Icanthinkofnothing.Ifirmlybelievethereisnothing.Ihardlyunderstandevenwhatyoumean.’

           Asshestillstoodlookingfixedlyatme,atwitchingorthrobbing,fromwhichIcouldnotdissociatetheideaofpain,cameintothatcruelmark;andliftedupthecornerofherlipasifwithscorn,orwithapitythatdespiseditsobject.Sheputherhanduponithurriedlyahandsothinanddelicate,thatwhenIhadseenherholditupbeforethefiretoshadeherface,Ihadcompareditinmythoughtstofineporcelainandsaying,inaquick,fierce,passionateway,‘Iswearyoutosecrecyaboutthis!’saidnotawordmore.

           Mrs.Steerforthwasparticularlyhappyinherson’ssociety,andSteerforthwas,onthisoccasion,particularlyattentiveandrespectfultoher.Itwasveryinterestingtometoseethemtogether,notonlyonaccountoftheirmutualaffection,butbecauseofthestrongpersonalresemblancebetweenthem,andthemannerinwhichwhatwashaughtyorimpetuousinhimwassoftenedbyageandsex,inher,toagraciousdignity.

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