Дэвид Копперфильд

Blissful

           Spenlowbeingalittledrowsyafterthechampagne—honourtothesoilthatgrewthegrape,tothegrapethatmadethewine,tothesunthatripenedit,andtothemerchantwhoadulteratedit!—andbeingfastasleepinacornerofthecarriage,IrodebythesideandtalkedtoDora.Sheadmiredmyhorseandpattedhim—oh,whatadearlittlehanditlookeduponahorse!—andhershawlwouldnotkeepright,andnowandthenIdrewitroundherwithmyarm;andIevenfanciedthatJipbegantoseehowitwas,andtounderstandthathemustmakeuphismindtobefriendswithme.

           ThatsagaciousMissMills,too;thatamiable,thoughquiteusedup,recluse;thatlittlepatriarchofsomethinglessthantwenty,whohaddonewiththeworld,andmustn’tonanyaccounthavetheslumberingechoesinthecavernsofMemoryawakened;whatakindthingshedid!

           ‘Mr.Copperfield,’saidMissMills,‘cometothissideofthecarriageamoment—ifyoucanspareamoment.Iwanttospeaktoyou.’

           Beholdme,onmygallantgrey,bendingatthesideofMissMills,withmyhanduponthecarriagedoor!

           ‘Doraiscomingtostaywithme.Sheiscominghomewithmethedayaftertomorrow.Ifyouwouldliketocall,Iamsurepapawouldbehappytoseeyou.

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