Дэвид Копперфильд

The Wanderer

           

           ‘Yes,sir,’hereplied,patientlyshakinghishead,‘I’mawaytomorrow.’

           ‘Wherewereyougoingnow?’Iasked.

           ‘Well!’hereplied,shakingthesnowoutofhislonghair,‘Iwasa-goingtoturninsomewheers.’

           Inthosedaystherewasaside-entrancetothestable-yardoftheGoldenCross,theinnsomemorabletomeinconnexionwithhismisfortune,nearlyoppositetowherewestood.Ipointedoutthegateway,putmyarmthroughhis,andwewentacross.Twoorthreepublic-roomsopenedoutofthestable-yard;andlookingintooneofthem,andfindingitempty,andagoodfireburning,Itookhiminthere.

           WhenIsawhiminthelight,Iobserved,notonlythathishairwaslongandragged,butthathisfacewasburntdarkbythesun.Hewasgreyer,thelinesinhisfaceandforeheadweredeeper,andhehadeveryappearanceofhavingtoiledandwanderedthroughallvarietiesofweather;buthelookedverystrong,andlikeamanupheldbysteadfastnessofpurpose,whomnothingcouldtireout.Heshookthesnowfromhishatandclothes,andbrusheditawayfromhisface,whileIwasinwardlymakingtheseremarks.Ashesatdownoppositetomeatatable,withhisbacktothedoorbywhichwehadentered,heputouthisroughhandagain,andgraspedminewarmly.

           ‘I’lltellyou,Mas’rDavy,’hesaid,‘wheerallI’vebeen,andwhat-allwe’veheerd.

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