Дэвид Копперфильд

The Wanderer

           Iboughtacountrydresstoputuponher;andIknow’dthat,oncefound,shewouldwalkbesidemeoverthemstonyroads,gowhereIwould,andnever,never,leavememore.Toputthatdressuponher,andtocastoffwhatsheworetotakeheronmyarmagain,andwandertowardshometostopsometimesupontheroad,andhealherbruisedfeetandherworse-bruisedheartwasallthatIthowtofnow.Idoen’tbelieveIshouldhavedonesomuchaslookathim.But,Mas’rDavy,itwarn’ttobenotyet!Iwastoolate,andtheywasgone.Wheer,Icouldn’tlearn.Somesaidbeer,somesaidtheer.Itravelledbeer,andItravelledtheer,butIfoundnoEm’ly,andItravelledhome.’

           ‘Howlongago?’Iasked.

           ‘Amattero’fowerdays,’saidMr.Peggotty.‘Isightedtheoldboatarterdark,andthelighta-shininginthewinder.WhenIcomenighandlookedinthroughtheglass,IseethefaithfulcreeturMissisGummidgesittin’bythefire,aswehadfixedupon,alone.Icalledout,“Doen’tbeafeerd!It’sDan’l!”andIwentin.Inevercouldhavethowttheoldboatwouldhavebeensostrange!’Fromsomepocketinhisbreast,hetookout,withaverycarefulhandasmallpaperbundlecontainingtwoorthreelettersorlittlepackets,whichhelaiduponthetable.

           ‘Thisfustonecome,’hesaid,selectingitfromtherest,‘aforeIhadbeengoneaweek.AfiftypoundBanknote,inasheetofpaper,directedtome,andputunderneaththedoorinthenight.

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