Девід Копперфільд

Good and Bad Angels

           Andrew’s,Holborn,beforeIcouldmusterupsufficientdesperationtopulltheprivatebell-handleletintotheleft-handdoor-postofMr.Waterbrook’shouse.

           TheprofessionalbusinessofMr.Waterbrook’sestablishmentwasdoneontheground-floor,andthegenteelbusiness(ofwhichtherewasagooddeal)intheupperpartofthebuilding.Iwasshownintoaprettybutratherclosedrawing-room,andtheresatAgnes,nettingapurse.

           Shelookedsoquietandgood,andremindedmesostronglyofmyairyfreshschooldaysatCanterbury,andthesodden,smoky,stupidwretchIhadbeentheothernight,that,nobodybeingby,Iyieldedtomyself-reproachandshame,andinshort,madeafoolofmyself.IcannotdenythatIshedtears.TothishourIamundecidedwhetheritwasuponthewholethewisestthingIcouldhavedone,orthemostridiculous.

           ‘Ifithadbeenanyonebutyou,Agnes,’saidI,turningawaymyhead,‘Ishouldnothavemindedithalfsomuch.Butthatitshouldhavebeenyouwhosawme!IalmostwishIhadbeendead,first.’

           Sheputherhanditstouchwaslikenootherhanduponmyarmforamoment;andIfeltsobefriendedandcomforted,thatIcouldnothelpmovingittomylips,andgratefullykissingit.

           ‘Sitdown,’saidAgnes,cheerfully.‘Don’tbeunhappy,Trotwood.Ifyoucannotconfidentlytrustme,whomwillyoutrust?’

           ‘Ah,Agnes!’Ireturned.

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