Дэвид Копперфильд

Depression

           ShewaslikeHopeembodied,tome.HowdifferentIfeltinoneshortminute,havingAgnesatmyside!

           Myaunthadwrittenheroneoftheodd,abruptnotes—verylittlelongerthanaBanknote—towhichherepistolaryeffortswereusuallylimited.Shehadstatedthereinthatshehadfallenintoadversity,andwasleavingDoverforgood,buthadquitemadeuphermindtoit,andwassowellthatnobodyneedbeuncomfortableabouther.AgneshadcometoLondontoseemyaunt,betweenwhomandherselftherehadbeenamutuallikingthesemanyyears:indeed,itdatedfromthetimeofmytakingupmyresidenceinMr.Wickfield’shouse.Shewasnotalone,shesaid.HerpapawaswithherandUriahHeep.

           ‘Andnowtheyarepartners,’saidI.‘Confoundhim!’

           ‘Yes,’saidAgnes.‘Theyhavesomebusinesshere;andItookadvantageoftheircoming,tocometoo.Youmustnotthinkmyvisitallfriendlyanddisinterested,Trotwood,for—IamafraidImaybecruellyprejudiced—Idonotliketoletpapagoawayalone,withhim.’‘DoesheexercisethesameinfluenceoverMr.Wickfieldstill,Agnes?’

           Agnesshookherhead.‘Thereissuchachangeathome,’saidshe,‘thatyouwouldscarcelyknowthedearoldhouse.Theylivewithusnow.’

           ‘They?’saidI.

           ‘Mr.Heepandhismother.Hesleepsinyouroldroom,’saidAgnes,lookingupintomyface.

           ‘IwishIhadtheorderingofhisdreams,’saidI.

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