Дэвид Копперфильд

Mischief

           

           AlthoughIthinkIhadneverreallyfearedit,inanyseasonofcoolreflection,itwasanunspeakablerelieftometohavethisassurancefromherowntruthfullips.Itoldherso,earnestly.

           ‘Andwhenthisvisitisover,’saidI,‘forwemaynotbealoneanothertime,howlongisitlikelytobe,mydearAgnes,beforeyoucometoLondonagain?’

           ‘Probablyalongtime,’shereplied;‘Ithinkitwillbebestforpapa’ssaketoremainathome.Wearenotlikelytomeetoften,forsometimetocome;butIshallbeagoodcorrespondentofDora’s,andweshallfrequentlyhearofoneanotherthatway.’

           WewerenowwithinthelittlecourtyardoftheDoctor’scottage.Itwasgrowinglate.TherewasalightinthewindowofMrs.Strong’schamber,andAgnes,pointingtoit,bademegoodnight.

           ‘Donotbetroubled,’shesaid,givingmeherhand,‘byourmisfortunesandanxieties.Icanbehappierinnothingthaninyourhappiness.Ifyoucanevergivemehelp,relyuponitIwillaskyouforit.Godblessyoualways!’Inherbeamingsmile,andintheselasttonesofhercheerfulvoice,IseemedagaintoseeandhearmylittleDorainhercompany.Istoodawhile,lookingthroughtheporchatthestars,withaheartfullofloveandgratitude,andthenwalkedslowlyforth.Ihadengagedabedatadecentalehousecloseby,andwasgoingoutatthegate,when,happeningtoturnmyhead,IsawalightintheDoctor’sstudy.

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