Дэвид Копперфильд

Wickfield and Heep

           Whattheknittingwas,Idon’tknow,notbeinglearnedinthatart;butitlookedlikeanet;andassheworkedawaywiththoseChinesechopsticksofknitting-needles,sheshowedinthefirelightlikeanill-lookingenchantress,baulkedasyetbytheradiantgoodnessopposite,butgettingreadyforacastofhernetbyandby.

           Atdinnershemaintainedherwatch,withthesameunwinkingeyes.Afterdinner,hersontookhisturn;andwhenMr.Wickfield,himself,andIwereleftalonetogether,leeredatme,andwritheduntilIcouldhardlybearit.Inthedrawing-room,therewasthemotherknittingandwatchingagain.AllthetimethatAgnessangandplayed,themothersatatthepiano.Oncesheaskedforaparticularballad,whichshesaidherUry(whowasyawninginagreatchair)dotedon;andatintervalsshelookedroundathim,andreportedtoAgnesthathewasinraptureswiththemusic.ButshehardlyeverspokeIquestionifsheeverdidwithoutmakingsomementionofhim.Itwasevidenttomethatthiswasthedutyassignedtoher.

           Thislasteduntilbedtime.Tohaveseenthemotherandson,liketwogreatbatshangingoverthewholehouse,anddarkeningitwiththeiruglyforms,mademesouncomfortable,thatIwouldratherhaveremaineddownstairs,knittingandall,thangonetobed.Ihardlygotanysleep.Nextdaytheknittingandwatchingbeganagain,andlastedallday.

           IhadnotanopportunityofspeakingtoAgnes,fortenminutes.Icouldbarelyshowhermyletter.

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