Девід Копперфільд

Mr. Peggotty’s Dream Comes True

           Martha,withanastonishedlook,repeatedherformeraction,andsoftlyledmeupthestairs;andthen,byalittleback-doorwhichseemedtohavenolock,andwhichshepushedopenwithatouch,intoasmallemptygarretwithalowslopingroof,littlebetterthanacupboard.Betweenthis,andtheroomshehadcalledhers,therewasasmalldoorofcommunication,standingpartlyopen.Herewestopped,breathlesswithourascent,andsheplacedherhandlightlyonmylips.Icouldonlysee,oftheroombeyond,thatitwasprettylarge;thattherewasabedinit;andthatthereweresomecommonpicturesofshipsuponthewalls.IcouldnotseeMissDartle,orthepersonwhomwehadheardheraddress.Certainly,mycompanioncouldnot,formypositionwasthebest.Adeadsilenceprevailedforsomemoments.Marthakeptonehandonmylips,andraisedtheotherinalisteningattitude.

           ‘Itmatterslittletomehernotbeingathome,’saidRosaDartlehaughtily,‘Iknownothingofher.ItisyouIcometosee.’

           ‘Me?’repliedasoftvoice.

           Atthesoundofit,athrillwentthroughmyframe.ForitwasEmily’s!

           ‘Yes,’returnedMissDartle,‘Ihavecometolookatyou.What?Youarenotashamedofthefacethathasdonesomuch?’

           Theresoluteandunrelentinghatredofhertone,itscoldsternsharpness,anditsmasteredrage,presentedherbeforeme,asifIhadseenherstandinginthelight.

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