Девід Копперфільд

The Wanderer

           I’vebeenfur,andwe’veheerdlittle;butI’lltellyou!’

           Irangthebellforsomethinghottodrink.Hewouldhavenothingstrongerthanale;andwhileitwasbeingbrought,andbeingwarmedatthefire,hesatthinking.Therewasafine,massivegravityinhisface,Ididnotventuretodisturb.

           ‘Whenshewasachild,’hesaid,liftinguphisheadsoonafterwewereleftalone,‘sheusedtotalktomeadealaboutthesea,andaboutthemcoastswheretheseagottobedarkblue,andtolaya-shininganda-shininginthesun.Ithowt,oddtimes,asherfatherbeingdrowndedmadeherthinkonitsomuch.Idoen’tknow,yousee,butmaybeshebelievedorhopedhehaddriftedouttothemparts,wheretheflowersisalwaysa-blowing,andthecountrybright.’

           ‘Itislikelytohavebeenachildishfancy,’Ireplied.

           ‘Whenshewaslost,’saidMr.Peggotty,‘Iknow’dinmymind,ashewouldtakehertothemcountries.Iknow’dinmymind,ashe’dhavetoldherwondersof‘em,andhowshewastobealadytheer,andhowhegothertolistentohimfust,alongo’sechlike.Whenweseehismother,Iknow’dquitewellasIwasright.Iwentacross-channeltoFrance,andlandedtheer,asifI’dfelldownfromthesky.’

           Isawthedoormove,andthesnowdriftin.Isawitmovealittlemore,andahandsoftlyinterposetokeepitopen.

           ‘IfoundoutanEnglishgen’lemanaswasinauthority,’saidMr.

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