Дэвид Копперфильд

Wickfield and Heep

           

           Inherplacidsisterlymanner;withherbeamingeyes;withhertendervoice;andwiththatsweetcomposure,whichhadlongagomadethehousethatheldherquiteasacredplacetome;shesoonwonmefromthisweakness,andledmeontotellallthathadhappenedsinceourlastmeeting.

           ‘Andthereisnotanotherwordtotell,Agnes,’saidI,whenIhadmadeanendofmyconfidence.‘Now,myrelianceisonyou.’

           ‘Butitmustnotbeonme,Trotwood,’returnedAgnes,withapleasantsmile.‘Itmustbeonsomeoneelse.’

           ‘OnDora?’saidI.

           ‘Assuredly.’

           ‘Why,Ihavenotmentioned,Agnes,’saidI,alittleembarrassed,‘thatDoraisratherdifficulttoIwouldnot,fortheworld,say,torelyupon,becausesheisthesoulofpurityandtruthbutratherdifficulttoIhardlyknowhowtoexpressit,really,Agnes.Sheisatimidlittlething,andeasilydisturbedandfrightened.Sometimeago,beforeherfather’sdeath,whenIthoughtitrighttomentiontoherbutI’lltellyou,ifyouwillbearwithme,howitwas.’

           Accordingly,ItoldAgnesaboutmydeclarationofpoverty,aboutthecookery-book,thehousekeepingaccounts,andalltherestofit.

           ‘Oh,Trotwood!’sheremonstrated,withasmile.‘Justyouroldheadlongway!Youmighthavebeeninearnestinstrivingtogetonintheworld,withoutbeingsoverysuddenwithatimid,loving,inexperiencedgirl.

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Roboto Lora
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