Дэвид Копперфильд

Depression

           ‘Hewouldn’tsleeptherelong.’

           ‘Ikeepmyownlittleroom,’saidAgnes,‘whereIusedtolearnmylessons.Howthetimegoes!Youremember?Thelittlepanelledroomthatopensfromthedrawing-room?’

           ‘Remember,Agnes?WhenIsawyou,forthefirsttime,comingoutatthedoor,withyourquaintlittlebasketofkeyshangingatyourside?’

           ‘Itisjustthesame,’saidAgnes,smiling.‘Iamgladyouthinkofitsopleasantly.Wewereveryhappy.’

           ‘Wewere,indeed,’saidI.

           ‘Ikeepthatroomtomyselfstill;butIcannotalwaysdesertMrs.Heep,youknow.Andso,’saidAgnes,quietly,‘Ifeelobligedtobearhercompany,whenImightprefertobealone.ButIhavenootherreasontocomplainofher.Ifshetiresme,sometimes,byherpraisesofherson,itisonlynaturalinamother.Heisaverygoodsontoher.’

           IlookedatAgneswhenshesaidthesewords,withoutdetectinginheranyconsciousnessofUriah’sdesign.Hermildbutearnesteyesmetminewiththeirownbeautifulfrankness,andtherewasnochangeinhergentleface.

           ‘Thechiefeviloftheirpresenceinthehouse,’saidAgnes,‘isthatIcannotbeasnearpapaasIcouldwishUriahHeepbeingsomuchbetweenus—andcannotwatchoverhim,ifthatisnottooboldathingtosay,ascloselyasIwould.Butifanyfraudortreacheryispractisingagainsthim,Ihopethatsimpleloveandtruthwillbestrongintheend.

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