Дэвид Копперфильд

A Dissolution of Partnership

           Thehousewasrousedupdirectly,andthreeofthemwentoutalongtheroad.Theyfoundhimamileoff.’

           ‘Morethanamileoff,Mr.Tiffey,’interposedajunior.

           ‘Wasit?Ibelieveyouareright,’saidTiffey,—‘morethanamileoff—notfarfromthechurch—lyingpartlyontheroadside,andpartlyonthepath,uponhisface.Whetherhefelloutinafit,orgotout,feelingillbeforethefitcameon—orevenwhetherhewasquitedeadthen,thoughthereisnodoubthewasquiteinsensible—nooneappearstoknow.Ifhebreathed,certainlyheneverspoke.Medicalassistancewasgotassoonaspossible,butitwasquiteuseless.’

           IcannotdescribethestateofmindintowhichIwasthrownbythisintelligence.Theshockofsuchaneventhappeningsosuddenly,andhappeningtoonewithwhomIhadbeeninanyrespectatvariance—theappallingvacancyintheroomhehadoccupiedsolately,wherehischairandtableseemedtowaitforhim,andhishandwritingofyesterdaywaslikeaghost—thein-definableimpossibilityofseparatinghimfromtheplace,andfeeling,whenthedooropened,asifhemightcomein—thelazyhushandresttherewasintheoffice,andtheinsatiablerelishwithwhichourpeopletalkedaboutit,andotherpeoplecameinandoutallday,andgorgedthemselveswiththesubject—thisiseasilyintelligibletoanyone.WhatIcannotdescribeis,how,intheinnermostrecessesofmyownheart,IhadalurkingjealousyevenofDeath.

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