Дэвид Копперфильд

The Beginning of a Long Journey

           Imentionedtwoo’clockintheafternoonasthehourofourcoming,andIsentthelettermyselfbythefirstcoachinthemorning.

           Attheappointedtime,westoodatthedoorthedoorofthathousewhereIhadbeen,afewdayssince,sohappy:wheremyyouthfulconfidenceandwarmthofhearthadbeenyieldedupsofreely:whichwasclosedagainstmehenceforth:whichwasnowawaste,aruin.

           NoLittimerappeared.Thepleasanterfacewhichhadreplacedhis,ontheoccasionofmylastvisit,answeredtooursummons,andwentbeforeustothedrawing-room.Mrs.Steerforthwassittingthere.RosaDartleglided,aswewentin,fromanotherpartoftheroomandstoodbehindherchair.

           Isaw,directly,inhismother’sface,thatsheknewfromhimselfwhathehaddone.Itwasverypale;andborethetracesofdeeperemotionthanmyletteralone,weakenedbythedoubtsherfondnesswouldhaveraiseduponit,wouldhavebeenlikelytocreate.IthoughthermorelikehimthaneverIhadthoughther;andIfelt,ratherthansaw,thattheresemblancewasnotlostonmycompanion.

           Shesatuprightinherarm-chair,withastately,immovable,passionlessair,thatitseemedasifnothingcoulddisturb.ShelookedverysteadfastlyatMr.Peggottywhenhestoodbeforeher;andhelookedquiteassteadfastlyather.RosaDartle’skeenglancecomprehendedallofus.Forsomemomentsnotawordwasspoken.

           ShemotionedtoMr.Peggottytobeseated.

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