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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 215/820
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‘
To
stay
,
’
I
answered
,
quickly
.
‘
You
are
sure
?
’
‘
If
you
please
.
If
I
may
!
’
‘
Why
,
it
’
s
but
a
dull
life
that
we
lead
here
,
boy
,
I
am
afraid
,
’
he
said
.
‘
Not
more
dull
for
me
than
Agnes
,
sir
.
Not
dull
at
all
!
’
‘
Than
Agnes
,
’
he
repeated
,
walking
slowly
to
the
great
chimney
-
piece
,
and
leaning
against
it
.
‘
Than
Agnes
!
’
He
had
drank
wine
that
evening
(
or
I
fancied
it
)
,
until
his
eyes
were
bloodshot
.
Not
that
I
could
see
them
now
,
for
they
were
cast
down
,
and
shaded
by
his
hand
;
but
I
had
noticed
them
a
little
while
before
.
‘
Now
I
wonder
,
’
he
muttered
,
‘
whether
my
Agnes
tires
of
me
.
When
should
I
ever
tire
of
her
!
But
that
’
s
different
,
that
’
s
quite
different
.
’
He
was
musing
,
not
speaking
to
me
;
so
I
remained
quiet
.
‘
A
dull
old
house
,
’
he
said
,
‘
and
a
monotonous
life
;
but
I
must
have
her
near
me
.
I
must
keep
her
near
me
.
If
the
thought
that
I
may
die
and
leave
my
darling
,
or
that
my
darling
may
die
and
leave
me
,
comes
like
a
spectre
,
to
distress
my
happiest
hours
,
and
is
only
to
be
drowned
in
—
—
’
