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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 130/820
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‘
Peggotty
,
’
I
said
in
a
thoughtful
whisper
,
one
evening
,
when
I
was
warming
my
hands
at
the
kitchen
fire
,
‘
Mr
.
Murdstone
likes
me
less
than
he
used
to
.
He
never
liked
me
much
,
Peggotty
;
but
he
would
rather
not
even
see
me
now
,
if
he
can
help
it
.
’
‘
Perhaps
it
’
s
his
sorrow
,
’
said
Peggotty
,
stroking
my
hair
.
‘
I
am
sure
,
Peggotty
,
I
am
sorry
too
.
If
I
believed
it
was
his
sorrow
,
I
should
not
think
of
it
at
all
.
But
it
’
s
not
that
;
oh
,
no
,
it
’
s
not
that
.
’
‘
How
do
you
know
it
’
s
not
that
?
’
said
Peggotty
,
after
a
silence
.
‘
Oh
,
his
sorrow
is
another
and
quite
a
different
thing
.
He
is
sorry
at
this
moment
,
sitting
by
the
fireside
with
Miss
Murdstone
;
but
if
I
was
to
go
in
,
Peggotty
,
he
would
be
something
besides
.
’
‘
What
would
he
be
?
’
said
Peggotty
.
‘
Angry
,
’
I
answered
,
with
an
involuntary
imitation
of
his
dark
frown
.
‘
If
he
was
only
sorry
,
he
wouldn
’
t
look
at
me
as
he
does
.
I
am
only
sorry
,
and
it
makes
me
feel
kinder
.
’
Peggotty
said
nothing
for
a
little
while
;
and
I
warmed
my
hands
,
as
silent
as
she
.
‘
Davy
,
’
she
said
at
length
.
