Дэвид Копперфильд

Blissful

           MissMillswascopyingmusic(Irecollect,itwasanewsong,called‘Affection’sDirge’),andDorawaspaintingflowers.Whatweremyfeelings,whenIrecognizedmyownflowers;theidenticalCoventGardenMarketpurchase!Icannotsaythattheywereverylike,orthattheyparticularlyresembledanyflowersthathaveevercomeundermyobservation;butIknewfromthepaperroundthemwhichwasaccuratelycopied,whatthecompositionwas.

           MissMillswasverygladtoseeme,andverysorryherpapawasnotathome:thoughIthoughtweallborethatwithfortitude.MissMillswasconversationalforafewminutes,andthen,layingdownherpenupon‘Affection’sDirge’,gotup,andlefttheroom.

           IbegantothinkIwouldputitofftilltomorrow.

           ‘Ihopeyourpoorhorsewasnottired,whenhegothomeatnight,’saidDora,liftingupherbeautifuleyes.‘Itwasalongwayforhim.’

           IbegantothinkIwoulddoittoday.

           ‘Itwasalongwayforhim,’saidI,‘forhehadnothingtoupholdhimonthejourney.’

           ‘Wasn’thefed,poorthing?’askedDora.

           IbegantothinkIwouldputitofftilltomorrow.

           ‘Ye-yes,’Isaid,‘hewaswelltakencareof.ImeanhehadnottheunutterablehappinessthatIhadinbeingsonearyou.

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