Дэвид Копперфильд

A Loss

           

           ‘Em’ly,mydear,’criedMr.Peggotty.‘Seehere!Here’sMas’rDavycome!What,cheerup,pretty!NotawuredtoMas’rDavy?’

           Therewasatremblinguponher,thatIcanseenow.ThecoldnessofherhandwhenItouchedit,Icanfeelyet.Itsonlysignofanimationwastoshrinkfrommine;andthensheglidedfromthechair,andcreepingtotheothersideofheruncle,bowedherself,silentlyandtremblingstill,uponhisbreast.

           ‘It’ssuchalovingart,’saidMr.Peggotty,smoothingherrichhairwithhisgreathardhand,‘thatitcan’tabearthesorrerofthis.It’snat’ralinyoungfolk,Mas’rDavy,whenthey’renewtotheseheretrials,andtimid,likemylittlebird,it’snat’ral.’

           Sheclungtheclosertohim,butneitherliftedupherface,norspokeaword.

           ‘It’sgettinglate,mydear,’saidMr.Peggotty,‘andhere’sHamcomefurtotakeyouhome.Theer!Goalongwitht’otherlovingart!What’Em’ly?Eh,mypretty?’

           Thesoundofhervoicehadnotreachedme,buthebenthisheadasifhelistenedtoher,andthensaid:

           ‘Letyoustaywithyouruncle?Why,youdoen’tmeantoaskmethat!Staywithyouruncle,Moppet?Whenyourhusbandthat’llbesosoon,isherefurtotakeyouhome?Nowapersonwouldn’tthinkit,furtoseethislittlethingalongsidearough-weatherchaplikeme,’saidMr.

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