Холодний дім

A Progress

           Theclockticked,thefireclicked;notanothersoundhadbeenheardintheroomorinthehouseforIdon’tknowhowlong.Ihappenedtolooktimidlyupfrommystitching,acrossthetableatmygodmother,andIsawinherface,lookinggloomilyatme,"Itwouldhavebeenfarbetter,littleEsther,thatyouhadhadnobirthday,thatyouhadneverbeenborn!"Ibrokeoutcryingandsobbing,andIsaid,"Oh,deargodmother,tellme,praydotellme,didMamadieonmybirthday?""No,"shereturned."Askmenomore,child!""Oh,dopraytellmesomethingofher.Donow,atlast,deargodmother,ifyouplease!WhatdidIdotoher?HowdidIloseher?WhyamIsodifferentfromotherchildren,andwhyisitmyfault,deargodmother?No,no,no,don’tgoaway.Oh,speaktome!"Iwasinakindoffrightbeyondmygrief,andIcaughtholdofherdressandwaskneelingtoher.Shehadbeensayingallthewhile,"Letmego!"Butnowshestoodstill.Herdarkenedfacehadsuchpowerovermethatitstoppedmeinthemidstofmyvehemence.IputupmytremblinglittlehandtoclasphersortobegherpardonwithwhatearnestnessImight,butwithdrewitasshelookedatme,andlaiditonmyflutteringheart.Sheraisedme,satinherchair,andstandingmebeforeher,saidslowlyinacold,lowvoiceIseeherknittedbrowandpointedfinger"Yourmother,Esther,isyourdisgrace,andyouwerehers.Thetimewillcomeandsoonenoughwhenyouwillunderstandthisbetterandwillfeelittoo,asnoonesaveawomancan.

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Roboto Lora
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