Дэвид Копперфильд

Wickfield and Heep

           

           ‘DearestAgnes!’Ireturned,‘Iseeyouaskmenottospeakoftonightbutistherenothingtobedone?’

           ‘ThereisGodtotrustin!’shereplied.

           ‘CanIdonothing-I,whocometoyouwithmypoorsorrows?’

           ‘Andmakeminesomuchlighter,’shereplied.‘DearTrotwood,no!’

           ‘DearAgnes,’Isaid,‘itispresumptuousforme,whoamsopoorinallinwhichyouaresorichgoodness,resolution,allnoblequalitiestodoubtordirectyou;butyouknowhowmuchIloveyou,andhowmuchIoweyou.Youwillneversacrificeyourselftoamistakensenseofduty,Agnes?’

           MoreagitatedforamomentthanIhadeverseenher,shetookherhandsfromme,andmovedastepback.

           ‘Sayyouhavenosuchthought,dearAgnes!Muchmorethansister!Thinkofthepricelessgiftofsuchaheartasyours,ofsuchaloveasyours!’

           Oh!long,longafterwards,Isawthatfaceriseupbeforeme,withitsmomentarylook,notwondering,notaccusing,notregretting.Oh,long,longafterwards,Isawthatlooksubside,asitdidnow,intothelovelysmile,withwhichshetoldmeshehadnofearforherselfIneedhavenoneforherandpartedfrommebythenameofBrother,andwasgone!

           Itwasdarkinthemorning,whenIgotuponthecoachattheinndoor

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