Дэвид Копперфильд

The Wanderer

           Itlookedinmine,passedacrossthenarrowlane,anddisappeared.Iknewit.Ihadseenitsomewhere.ButIcouldnotrememberwhere.Ihadsomeassociationwithit,thatstruckuponmyheartdirectly;butIwasthinkingofanythingelsewhenitcameuponme,andwasconfused.

           Onthestepsofthechurch,therewasthestoopingfigureofaman,whohadputdownsomeburdenonthesmoothsnow,toadjustit;myseeingtheface,andmyseeinghim,weresimultaneous.Idon’tthinkIhadstoppedinmysurprise;but,inanycase,asIwenton,herose,turned,andcamedowntowardsme.IstoodfacetofacewithMr.Peggotty!

           ThenIrememberedthewoman.ItwasMartha,towhomEmilyhadgiventhemoneythatnightinthekitchen.MarthaEndellsidebysidewithwhom,hewouldnothaveseenhisdearniece,Hamhadtoldme,forallthetreasureswreckedinthesea.

           Weshookhandsheartily.Atfirst,neitherofuscouldspeakaword.

           ‘Mas’rDavy!’hesaid,grippingmetight,‘itdomyartgoodtoseeyou,sir.Wellmet,wellmet!’

           ‘Wellmet,mydearoldfriend!’saidI.

           ‘Ihadmythowtso’comingtomakeinquirationforyou,sir,tonight,’hesaid,‘butknowingasyourauntwaslivingalongwi’youfurI’vebeendownyonderYarmouthwayIwasafeerditwastoolate.Ishouldhavecomeearlyinthemorning,sir,aforegoingaway.’

           ‘Again?’saidI.

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