Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           Myfriend,’turningadarkeningfaceonPeggotty,whenhehadwatchedmymotherout,anddismissedherwithanodandasmile;‘doyouknowyourmistress’sname?’

           ‘Shehasbeenmymistressalongtime,sir,’answeredPeggotty,‘Ioughttoknowit.’‘That’strue,’heanswered.‘ButIthoughtIheardyou,asIcameupstairs,addressherbyanamethatisnothers.Shehastakenmine,youknow.Willyourememberthat?’

           Peggotty,withsomeuneasyglancesatme,curtseyedherselfoutoftheroomwithoutreplying;seeing,Isuppose,thatshewasexpectedtogo,andhadnoexcuseforremaining.Whenwetwowereleftalone,heshutthedoor,andsittingonachair,andholdingmestandingbeforehim,lookedsteadilyintomyeyes.Ifeltmyownattracted,nolesssteadily,tohis.AsIrecallourbeingopposedthus,facetoface,Iseemagaintohearmyheartbeatfastandhigh.

           ‘David,’hesaid,makinghislipsthin,bypressingthemtogether,‘ifIhaveanobstinatehorseordogtodealwith,whatdoyouthinkIdo?’

           ‘Idon’tknow.’

           ‘Ibeathim.’

           Ihadansweredinakindofbreathlesswhisper,butIfelt,inmysilence,thatmybreathwasshorternow.

           ‘Imakehimwince,andsmart.Isaytomyself,“I’llconquerthatfellow”;andifitweretocosthimallthebloodhehad,Ishoulddoit.Whatisthatuponyourface?’

           ‘Dirt,’Isaid.

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