Дэвид Копперфильд

Enthusiasm

           

           Icamesoftlyawayfrommyplaceofobservation,andavoidingthatpartoftheneighbourhood,andwishingIhadnotgonenearit,strolledaboutuntilitwasteno’clock.Thechurchwiththeslenderspire,thatstandsonthetopofthehillnow,wasnottherethentotellmethetime.Anoldred-brickmansion,usedasaschool,wasinitsplace;andafineoldhouseitmusthavebeentogotoschoolat,asIrecollectit.

           WhenIapproachedtheDoctor’scottageaprettyoldplace,onwhichheseemedtohaveexpendedsomemoney,ifImightjudgefromtheembellishmentsandrepairsthathadthelookofbeingjustcompletedIsawhimwalkinginthegardenattheside,gaitersandall,asifhehadneverleftoffwalkingsincethedaysofmypupilage.Hehadhisoldcompanionsabouthim,too;fortherewereplentyofhightreesintheneighbourhood,andtwoorthreerookswereonthegrass,lookingafterhim,asiftheyhadbeenwrittentoabouthimbytheCanterburyrooks,andwereobservinghimcloselyinconsequence.

           Knowingtheutterhopelessnessofattractinghisattentionfromthatdistance,Imadeboldtoopenthegate,andwalkafterhim,soastomeethimwhenheshouldturnround.Whenhedid,andcametowardsme,helookedatmethoughtfullyforafewmoments,evidentlywithoutthinkingaboutmeatall;andthenhisbenevolentfaceexpressedextraordinarypleasure,andhetookmebybothhands.

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