Дэвид Копперфильд

Wickfield and Heep

           Itmademesickathearttosee,andmyhandrecoilsfromwritingit.

           ‘Come,fellow-partner!’saidUriah,atlast,‘I’llgiveyouanotherone,andIumblyaskforbumpers,seeingIintendtomakeitthedivinestofhersex.’

           Herfatherhadhisemptyglassinhishand.Isawhimsetitdown,lookatthepictureshewassolike,puthishandtohisforehead,andshrinkbackinhiselbow-chair.

           ‘I’manumbleindividualtogiveyouherelth,’proceededUriah,‘butIadmireadoreher.’

           Nophysicalpainthatherfather’sgreyheadcouldhaveborne,Ithink,couldhavebeenmoreterribletome,thanthementalenduranceIsawcompressednowwithinbothhishands.

           ‘Agnes,’saidUriah,eithernotregardinghim,ornotknowingwhatthenatureofhisactionwas,‘AgnesWickfieldis,Iamsafetosay,thedivinestofhersex.MayIspeakout,amongfriends?Tobeherfatherisaprouddistinction,buttobeherusband

           Sparemefromeveragainhearingsuchacry,asthatwithwhichherfatherroseupfromthetable!‘What’sthematter?’saidUriah,turningofadeadlycolour.‘Youarenotgonemad,afterall,Mr.Wickfield,Ihope?IfIsayI’veanambitiontomakeyourAgnesmyAgnes,Ihaveasgoodarighttoitasanotherman.Ihaveabetterrighttoitthananyotherman!’

           IhadmyarmsroundMr.

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