Дэвид Копперфильд

Wickfield and Heep

           Wickfield,imploringhimbyeverythingthatIcouldthinkof,oftenestofallbyhisloveforAgnes,tocalmhimselfalittle.Hewasmadforthemoment;tearingouthishair,beatinghishead,tryingtoforcemefromhim,andtoforcehimselffromme,notansweringaword,notlookingatorseeinganyone;blindlystrivingforheknewnotwhat,hisfaceallstaringanddistorted—afrightfulspectacle.

           Iconjuredhim,incoherently,butinthemostimpassionedmanner,nottoabandonhimselftothiswildness,buttohearme.IbesoughthimtothinkofAgnes,toconnectmewithAgnes,torecollecthowAgnesandIhadgrownuptogether,howIhonouredherandlovedher,howshewashisprideandjoy.Itriedtobringherideabeforehiminanyform;Ievenreproachedhimwithnothavingfirmnesstosparehertheknowledgeofsuchasceneasthis.Imayhaveeffectedsomething,orhiswildnessmayhavespentitself;butbydegreeshestruggledless,andbegantolookatmestrangelyatfirst,thenwithrecognitioninhiseyes.Atlengthhesaid,‘Iknow,Trotwood!MydarlingchildandyouIknow!Butlookathim!’

           HepointedtoUriah,paleandgloweringinacorner,evidentlyverymuchoutinhiscalculations,andtakenbysurprise.

           ‘Lookatmytorturer,’hereplied.‘BeforehimIhavestepbystepabandonednameandreputation,peaceandquiet,houseandhome.

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Roboto Lora
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