Дэвид Копперфильд

Mischief

           Whenwehadagainalighted,andwerewalkinginthestarlightalongthequietroadthatledtotheDoctor’shouse,ItoldAgnesitwasherdoing.

           ‘Whenyouweresittingbyher,’saidI,‘youseemedtobenolessherguardianangelthanmine;andyouseemsonow,Agnes.’

           ‘Apoorangel,’shereturned,‘butfaithful.’

           Thecleartoneofhervoice,goingstraighttomyheart,madeitnaturaltometosay:

           ‘Thecheerfulnessthatbelongstoyou,Agnes(andtonooneelsethateverIhaveseen),issorestored,Ihaveobservedtoday,thatIhavebeguntohopeyouarehappierathome?’

           ‘Iamhappierinmyself,’shesaid;‘Iamquitecheerfulandlight-hearted.’

           Iglancedattheserenefacelookingupward,andthoughtitwasthestarsthatmadeitseemsonoble.

           ‘Therehasbeennochangeathome,’saidAgnes,afterafewmoments.

           ‘Nofreshreference,’saidI,‘toIwouldn’tdistressyou,Agnes,butIcannothelpaskingtowhatwespokeof,whenwepartedlast?’

           ‘No,none,’sheanswered.

           ‘Ihavethoughtsomuchaboutit.’

           ‘Youmustthinklessaboutit.RememberthatIconfideinsimpleloveandtruthatlast.Havenoapprehensionsforme,Trotwood,’sheadded,afteramoment;‘thestepyoudreadmytaking,Ishallnevertake.

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