Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           

           HeknewitwasthemarkoftearsaswellasI.Butifhehadaskedthequestiontwentytimes,eachtimewithtwentyblows,IbelievemybabyheartwouldhaveburstbeforeIwouldhavetoldhimso.

           ‘Youhaveagooddealofintelligenceforalittlefellow,’hesaid,withagravesmilethatbelongedtohim,‘andyouunderstoodmeverywell,Isee.Washthatface,sir,andcomedownwithme.’

           Hepointedtothewashing-stand,whichIhadmadeouttobelikeMrs.Gummidge,andmotionedmewithhisheadtoobeyhimdirectly.Ihadlittledoubtthen,andIhavelessdoubtnow,thathewouldhaveknockedmedownwithouttheleastcompunction,ifIhadhesitated.

           ‘Clara,mydear,’hesaid,whenIhaddonehisbidding,andhewalkedmeintotheparlour,withhishandstillonmyarm;‘youwillnotbemadeuncomfortableanymore,Ihope.Weshallsoonimproveouryouthfulhumours.’

           Godhelpme,Imighthavebeenimprovedformywholelife,Imighthavebeenmadeanothercreatureperhaps,forlife,byakindwordatthatseason.Awordofencouragementandexplanation,ofpityformychildishignorance,ofwelcomehome,ofreassurancetomethatitwashome,mighthavemademedutifultohiminmyhearthenceforth,insteadofinmyhypocriticaloutside,andmighthavemademerespectinsteadofhatehim.

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