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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 661/820
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His
conviction
remained
unchanged
.
So
far
as
I
know
—
and
I
believe
his
honest
heart
was
transparent
to
me
—
he
never
wavered
again
,
in
his
solemn
certainty
of
finding
her
.
His
patience
never
tired
.
And
,
although
I
trembled
for
the
agony
it
might
one
day
be
to
him
to
have
his
strong
assurance
shivered
at
a
blow
,
there
was
something
so
religious
in
it
,
so
affectingly
expressive
of
its
anchor
being
in
the
purest
depths
of
his
fine
nature
,
that
the
respect
and
honour
in
which
I
held
him
were
exalted
every
day
.
His
was
not
a
lazy
trustfulness
that
hoped
,
and
did
no
more
.
He
had
been
a
man
of
sturdy
action
all
his
life
,
and
he
knew
that
in
all
things
wherein
he
wanted
help
he
must
do
his
own
part
faithfully
,
and
help
himself
.
I
have
known
him
set
out
in
the
night
,
on
a
misgiving
that
the
light
might
not
be
,
by
some
accident
,
in
the
window
of
the
old
boat
,
and
walk
to
Yarmouth
.
I
have
known
him
,
on
reading
something
in
the
newspaper
that
might
apply
to
her
,
take
up
his
stick
,
and
go
forth
on
a
journey
of
three
-
or
four
-
score
miles
.
He
made
his
way
by
sea
to
Naples
,
and
back
,
after
hearing
the
narrative
to
which
Miss
Dartle
had
assisted
me
.
All
his
journeys
were
ruggedly
performed
;
for
he
was
always
steadfast
in
a
purpose
of
saving
money
for
Emily
’
s
sake
,
when
she
should
be
found
.
In
all
this
long
pursuit
,
I
never
heard
him
repine
;
I
never
heard
him
say
he
was
fatigued
,
or
out
of
heart
.
Dora
had
often
seen
him
since
our
marriage
,
and
was
quite
fond
of
him
.
I
fancy
his
figure
before
me
now
,
standing
near
her
sofa
,
with
his
rough
cap
in
his
hand
,
and
the
blue
eyes
of
my
child
-
wife
raised
,
with
a
timid
wonder
,
to
his
face
.
Sometimes
of
an
evening
,
about
twilight
,
when
he
came
to
talk
with
me
,
I
would
induce
him
to
smoke
his
pipe
in
the
garden
,
as
we
slowly
paced
to
and
fro
together
;
and
then
,
the
picture
of
his
deserted
home
,
and
the
comfortable
air
it
used
to
have
in
my
childish
eyes
of
an
evening
when
the
fire
was
burning
,
and
the
wind
moaning
round
it
,
came
most
vividly
into
my
mind
.
One
evening
,
at
this
hour
,
he
told
me
that
he
had
found
Martha
waiting
near
his
lodging
on
the
preceding
night
when
he
came
out
,
and
that
she
had
asked
him
not
to
leave
London
on
any
account
,
until
he
should
have
seen
her
again
.
‘
Did
she
tell
you
why
?
’
I
inquired
.
‘
I
asked
her
,
Mas
’
r
Davy
,
’
he
replied
,
‘
but
it
is
but
few
words
as
she
ever
says
,
and
she
on
’
y
got
my
promise
and
so
went
away
.
’
‘
Did
she
say
when
you
might
expect
to
see
her
again
?
’
I
demanded
.
‘
No
,
Mas
’
r
Davy
,
’
he
returned
,
drawing
his
hand
thoughtfully
down
his
face
.
‘
I
asked
that
too
;
but
it
was
more
(
she
said
)
than
she
could
tell
.
’
As
I
had
long
forborne
to
encourage
him
with
hopes
that
hung
on
threads
,
I
made
no
other
comment
on
this
information
than
that
I
supposed
he
would
see
her
soon
.
Such
speculations
as
it
engendered
within
me
I
kept
to
myself
,
and
those
were
faint
enough
.
