Девід Копперфільд

Intelligence

           

           Asitwas,IthoughtaslittleofitasImight.Butmymindcouldnotgobyitandleaveit,asmybodydid;anditusuallyawakenedalongtrainofmeditations.Comingbeforeme,onthisparticulareveningthatImention,mingledwiththechildishrecollectionsandlaterfancies,theghostsofhalf-formedhopes,thebrokenshadowsofdisappointmentsdimlyseenandunderstood,theblendingofexperienceandimagination,incidentaltotheoccupationwithwhichmythoughtshadbeenbusy,itwasmorethancommonlysuggestive.IfellintoabrownstudyasIwalkedon,andavoiceatmysidemademestart.

           Itwasawoman’svoice,too.IwasnotlonginrecollectingMrs.Steerforth’slittleparlour-maid,whohadformerlywornblueribbonsinhercap.Shehadtakenthemoutnow,toadaptherself,Isuppose,tothealteredcharacterofthehouse;andworebutoneortwodisconsolatebowsofsoberbrown.

           ‘Ifyouplease,sir,wouldyouhavethegoodnesstowalkin,andspeaktoMissDartle?’

           ‘HasMissDartlesentyouforme?’Iinquired.

           ‘Nottonight,sir,butit’sjustthesame.MissDartlesawyoupassanightortwoago;andIwastositatworkonthestaircase,andwhenIsawyoupassagain,toaskyoutostepinandspeaktoher.’

           Iturnedback,andinquiredofmyconductor,aswewentalong,howMrs.Steerforthwas.Shesaidherladywasbutpoorly,andkeptherownroomagooddeal.

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Roboto Lora
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