Дэвид Копперфильд

The Wanderer

           ‘Iaminthelovingestoftempers,mydear,’shewouldassuremewithanod,‘butIamfidgetedandsorry!’

           Ihadbeentoobusytoobserve,untilaftershewasgonetobed,thatshehadlefthernight-mixture,asshealwayscalledit,untastedonthechimney-piece.Shecametoherdoor,withevenmorethanherusualaffectionofmanner,whenIknockedtoacquaintherwiththisdiscovery;butonlysaid,‘Ihavenotthehearttotakeit,Trot,tonight,’andshookherhead,andwentinagain.

           Shereadmylettertothetwooldladies,inthemorning,andapprovedofit.Ipostedit,andhadnothingtodothen,butwait,aspatientlyasIcould,forthereply.Iwasstillinthisstateofexpectation,andhadbeen,fornearlyaweek;whenIlefttheDoctor’sonesnowynight,towalkhome.

           Ithadbeenabitterday,andacuttingnorth-eastwindhadblownforsometime.Thewindhadgonedownwiththelight,andsothesnowhadcomeon.Itwasaheavy,settledfall,Irecollect,ingreatflakes;anditlaythick.Thenoiseofwheelsandtreadofpeoplewereashushed,asifthestreetshadbeenstrewnthatdepthwithfeathers.

           Myshortestwayhome,andInaturallytooktheshortestwayonsuchanightwasthroughSt.Martin’sLane.Now,thechurchwhichgivesitsnametothelane,stoodinalessfreesituationatthattime;therebeingnoopenspacebeforeit,andthelanewindingdowntotheStrand.AsIpassedthestepsoftheportico,Iencountered,atthecorner,awoman’sface.

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