Дэвид Копперфильд

A Loss

           It’sebbathalf-arterthree,slackwaterhalfanhour.Ifhelivestillitturns,he’llholdhisowntillpasttheflood,andgooutwiththenexttide.’

           Weremainedthere,watchinghim,alongtimehours.Whatmysteriousinfluencemypresencehaduponhiminthatstateofhissenses,Ishallnotpretendtosay;butwhenheatlastbegantowanderfeebly,itiscertainhewasmutteringaboutdrivingmetoschool.

           ‘He’scomingtohimself,’saidPeggotty.

           Mr.Peggottytouchedme,andwhisperedwithmuchaweandreverence.‘Theyarebotha-goingoutfast.’

           ‘Barkis,mydear!’saidPeggotty.

           ‘C.P.Barkis,’hecriedfaintly.‘Nobetterwomananywhere!’

           ‘Look!Here’sMasterDavy!’saidPeggotty.Forhenowopenedhiseyes.

           Iwasonthepointofaskinghimifheknewme,whenhetriedtostretchouthisarm,andsaidtome,distinctly,withapleasantsmile:

           ‘Barkisiswillin’!’

           And,itbeinglowwater,hewentoutwiththetide.

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