-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Дэвид Копперфильд
-
- Стр. 727/820
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
‘
Indeed
I
do
,
aunt
.
If
there
ever
was
a
time
when
I
felt
unwilling
that
you
should
have
a
sorrow
or
anxiety
which
I
could
not
share
,
it
is
now
.
’
‘
You
have
had
sorrow
enough
,
child
,
’
said
my
aunt
,
affectionately
,
‘
without
the
addition
of
my
little
miseries
.
I
could
have
no
other
motive
,
Trot
,
in
keeping
anything
from
you
.
’
‘
I
know
that
well
,
’
said
I
.
‘
But
tell
me
now
.
’
‘
Would
you
ride
with
me
a
little
way
tomorrow
morning
?
’
asked
my
aunt
.
‘
Of
course
.
’
‘
At
nine
,
’
said
she
.
‘
I
’
ll
tell
you
then
,
my
dear
.
’
At
nine
,
accordingly
,
we
went
out
in
a
little
chariot
,
and
drove
to
London
.
We
drove
a
long
way
through
the
streets
,
until
we
came
to
one
of
the
large
hospitals
.
Standing
hard
by
the
building
was
a
plain
hearse
.
The
driver
recognized
my
aunt
,
and
,
in
obedience
to
a
motion
of
her
hand
at
the
window
,
drove
slowly
off
;
we
following
.
‘
You
understand
it
now
,
Trot
,
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
He
is
gone
!
’
‘
Did
he
die
in
the
hospital
?
’
