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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 355/820
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I
listened
to
all
this
with
attention
;
and
though
,
I
must
say
,
I
had
my
doubts
whether
the
country
was
quite
as
much
obliged
to
the
Commons
as
Mr
.
Spenlow
made
out
,
I
respectfully
deferred
to
his
opinion
.
That
about
the
price
of
wheat
per
bushel
,
I
modestly
felt
was
too
much
for
my
strength
,
and
quite
settled
the
question
.
I
have
never
,
to
this
hour
,
got
the
better
of
that
bushel
of
wheat
.
It
has
reappeared
to
annihilate
me
,
all
through
my
life
,
in
connexion
with
all
kinds
of
subjects
.
I
don
’
t
know
now
,
exactly
,
what
it
has
to
do
with
me
,
or
what
right
it
has
to
crush
me
,
on
an
infinite
variety
of
occasions
;
but
whenever
I
see
my
old
friend
the
bushel
brought
in
by
the
head
and
shoulders
(
as
he
always
is
,
I
observe
)
,
I
give
up
a
subject
for
lost
.
This
is
a
digression
.
I
was
not
the
man
to
touch
the
Commons
,
and
bring
down
the
country
.
I
submissively
expressed
,
by
my
silence
,
my
acquiescence
in
all
I
had
heard
from
my
superior
in
years
and
knowledge
;
and
we
talked
about
The
Stranger
and
the
Drama
,
and
the
pairs
of
horses
,
until
we
came
to
Mr
.
Spenlow
’
s
gate
.
There
was
a
lovely
garden
to
Mr
.
Spenlow
’
s
house
;
and
though
that
was
not
the
best
time
of
the
year
for
seeing
a
garden
,
it
was
so
beautifully
kept
,
that
I
was
quite
enchanted
.
There
was
a
charming
lawn
,
there
were
clusters
of
trees
,
and
there
were
perspective
walks
that
I
could
just
distinguish
in
the
dark
,
arched
over
with
trellis
-
work
,
on
which
shrubs
and
flowers
grew
in
the
growing
season
.
‘
Here
Miss
Spenlow
walks
by
herself
,
’
I
thought
.
‘
Dear
me
!
’
We
went
into
the
house
,
which
was
cheerfully
lighted
up
,
and
into
a
hall
where
there
were
all
sorts
of
hats
,
caps
,
great
-
coats
,
plaids
,
gloves
,
whips
,
and
walking
-
sticks
.
‘
Where
is
Miss
Dora
?
’
said
Mr
.
Spenlow
to
the
servant
.
‘
Dora
!
’
I
thought
.
‘
What
a
beautiful
name
!
’
We
turned
into
a
room
near
at
hand
(
I
think
it
was
the
identical
breakfast
-
room
,
made
memorable
by
the
brown
East
Indian
sherry
)
,
and
I
heard
a
voice
say
,
‘
Mr
.
Copperfield
,
my
daughter
Dora
,
and
my
daughter
Dora
’
s
confidential
friend
!
’
It
was
,
no
doubt
,
Mr
.
Spenlow
’
s
voice
,
but
I
didn
’
t
know
it
,
and
I
didn
’
t
care
whose
it
was
.
All
was
over
in
a
moment
.
I
had
fulfilled
my
destiny
.
I
was
a
captive
and
a
slave
.
I
loved
Dora
Spenlow
to
distraction
!
She
was
more
than
human
to
me
.
She
was
a
Fairy
,
a
Sylph
,
I
don
’
t
know
what
she
was
—
anything
that
no
one
ever
saw
,
and
everything
that
everybody
ever
wanted
.
I
was
swallowed
up
in
an
abyss
of
love
in
an
instant
.
There
was
no
pausing
on
the
brink
;
no
looking
down
,
or
looking
back
;
I
was
gone
,
headlong
,
before
I
had
sense
to
say
a
word
to
her
.
‘
I
,
’
observed
a
well
-
remembered
voice
,
when
I
had
bowed
and
murmured
something
,
‘
have
seen
Mr
.
Copperfield
before
.
’
The
speaker
was
not
Dora
.
No
;
the
confidential
friend
,
Miss
Murdstone
!
