Дэвид Копперфильд

Depression

           Shethoughtshewaswiser,now,thanhermanofbusiness,whowasnotsuchagoodmanofbusinessbythistime,asheusedtobeIamalludingtoyourfather,Agnesandshetookitintoherheadtolayitoutforherself.Soshetookherpigs,’saidmyaunt,‘toaforeignmarket;andaverybadmarketitturnedouttobe.First,shelostintheminingway,andthenshelostinthedivingwayfishinguptreasure,orsomesuchTomTiddlernonsense,’explainedmyaunt,rubbinghernose;‘andthenshelostintheminingwayagain,and,lastofall,tosetthethingentirelytorights,shelostinthebankingway.Idon’tknowwhattheBankshareswereworthforalittlewhile,’saidmyaunt;‘centpercentwasthelowestofit,Ibelieve;buttheBankwasattheotherendoftheworld,andtumbledintospace,forwhatIknow;anyhow,itfelltopieces,andneverwillandnevercanpaysixpence;andBetsey’ssixpenceswereallthere,andthere’sanendofthem.Leastsaid,soonestmended!’

           Myauntconcludedthisphilosophicalsummary,byfixinghereyeswithakindoftriumphonAgnes,whosecolourwasgraduallyreturning.

           ‘DearMissTrotwood,isthatallthehistory?’saidAgnes.

           ‘Ihopeit’senough,child,’saidmyaunt.‘Iftherehadbeenmoremoneytolose,itwouldn’thavebeenall,Idaresay.Betseywouldhavecontrivedtothrowthataftertherest,andmakeanotherchapter,Ihavelittledoubt.Buttherewasnomoremoney,andthere’snomorestory.

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