Дэвид Копперфильд

The Beginning of a Long Journey

           Itsleavesandshootsweregreenthen,andthedaybeingsunny,apairofglassdoorsleadingtothegardenwerethrownopen.RosaDartle,enteringthiswaywithanoiselessstep,whenwewereclosetothem,addressedherselftome:

           ‘Youdowell,’shesaid,‘indeed,tobringthisfellowhere!’

           Suchaconcentrationofrageandscornasdarkenedherface,andflashedinherjet-blackeyes,Icouldnothavethoughtcompressibleevenintothatface.Thescarmadebythehammerwas,asusualinthisexcitedstateofherfeatures,stronglymarked.WhenthethrobbingIhadseenbefore,cameintoitasIlookedather,sheabsolutelyliftedupherhand,andstruckit.

           ‘Thisisafellow,’shesaid,‘tochampionandbringhere,ishenot?Youareatrueman!’

           ‘MissDartle,’Ireturned,‘youaresurelynotsounjustastocondemnME!’

           ‘Whydoyoubringdivisionbetweenthesetwomadcreatures?’shereturned.‘Don’tyouknowthattheyarebothmadwiththeirownself-willandpride?’

           ‘Isitmydoing?’Ireturned.

           ‘Isityourdoing!’sheretorted.‘Whydoyoubringthismanhere?’

           ‘Heisadeeply-injuredman,MissDartle,’Ireplied.‘Youmaynotknowit.’

           ‘IknowthatJamesSteerforth,’shesaid,withherhandonherbosom,asiftopreventthestormthatwasragingthere,frombeingloud,‘hasafalse,corruptheart,andisatraitor.

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