Дэвид Копперфильд

A Loss

           What?You’llgoalongwithme?—Well!comealongwithme—come!Ifherunclewasturnedoutofhouseandhome,andforcedtolaydowninadyke,Mas’rDavy,’saidMr.Peggotty,withnolesspridethanbefore,‘it’smybeliefshe’dgoalongwithhim,now!Butthere’llbesomeoneelse,soon,—someoneelse,soon,Em’ly!’

           Afterwards,whenIwentupstairs,asIpassedthedoorofmylittlechamber,whichwasdark,Ihadanindistinctimpressionofherbeingwithinit,castdownuponthefloor.But,whetheritwasreallyshe,orwhetheritwasaconfusionoftheshadowsintheroom,Idon’tknownow.

           Ihadleisuretothink,beforethekitchenfire,ofprettylittleEmily’sdreadofdeath—which,addedtowhatMr.Omerhadtoldme,Itooktobethecauseofherbeingsounlikeherself—andIhadleisure,beforePeggottycamedown,eventothinkmorelenientlyoftheweaknessofit:asIsatcountingthetickingoftheclock,anddeepeningmysenseofthesolemnhusharoundme.Peggottytookmeinherarms,andblessedandthankedmeoverandoveragainforbeingsuchacomforttoher(thatwaswhatshesaid)inherdistress.Shethenentreatedmetocomeupstairs,sobbingthatMr.Barkishadalwayslikedmeandadmiredme;thathehadoftentalkedofme,beforehefellintoastupor;andthatshebelieved,incaseofhiscomingtohimselfagain,hewouldbrightenupatsightofme,ifhecouldbrightenupatanyearthlything.

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