Дэвид Копперфильд

Wickfield and Heep

           Thecircumstancesthatdistressedmearenotchanged,sinceIcameintothisroom;butaninfluencecomesovermeinthatshortintervalthataltersme,oh,howmuchforthebetter!Whatisit?Whatisyoursecret,Agnes?’

           Herheadwasbentdown,lookingatthefire.

           ‘It’stheoldstory,’saidI.‘Don’tlaugh,whenIsayitwasalwaysthesameinlittlethingsasitisingreaterones.Myoldtroubleswerenonsense,andnowtheyareserious;butwheneverIhavegoneawayfrommyadoptedsister

           AgneslookedupwithsuchaHeavenlyface!andgavemeherhand,whichIkissed.

           ‘WheneverIhavenothadyou,Agnes,toadviseandapproveinthebeginning,Ihaveseemedtogowild,andtogetintoallsortsofdifficulty.WhenIhavecometoyou,atlast(asIhavealwaysdone),Ihavecometopeaceandhappiness.Icomehome,now,likeatiredtraveller,andfindsuchablessedsenseofrest!’

           IfeltsodeeplywhatIsaid,itaffectedmesosincerely,thatmyvoicefailed,andIcoveredmyfacewithmyhand,andbrokeintotears.Iwritethetruth.Whatevercontradictionsandinconsistenciestherewerewithinme,astherearewithinsomanyofus;whatevermighthavebeensodifferent,andsomuchbetter;whateverIhaddone,inwhichIhadperverselywanderedawayfromthevoiceofmyownheart;Iknewnothingof.IonlyknewthatIwasferventlyinearnest,whenIfelttherestandpeaceofhavingAgnesnearme.

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