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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 743/820
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‘
Aye
!
’
cried
Rosa
,
smiting
herself
passionately
on
the
breast
,
‘
look
at
me
!
Moan
,
and
groan
,
and
look
at
me
!
Look
here
!
’
striking
the
scar
,
‘
at
your
dead
child
’
s
handiwork
!
’
The
moan
the
mother
uttered
,
from
time
to
time
,
went
to
My
heart
.
Always
the
same
.
Always
inarticulate
and
stifled
.
Always
accompanied
with
an
incapable
motion
of
the
head
,
but
with
no
change
of
face
.
Always
proceeding
from
a
rigid
mouth
and
closed
teeth
,
as
if
the
jaw
were
locked
and
the
face
frozen
up
in
pain
.
‘
Do
you
remember
when
he
did
this
?
’
she
proceeded
.
‘
Do
you
remember
when
,
in
his
inheritance
of
your
nature
,
and
in
your
pampering
of
his
pride
and
passion
,
he
did
this
,
and
disfigured
me
for
life
?
Look
at
me
,
marked
until
I
die
with
his
high
displeasure
;
and
moan
and
groan
for
what
you
made
him
!
’
‘
Miss
Dartle
,
’
I
entreated
her
.
‘
For
Heaven
’
s
sake
—
—
’
‘
I
WILL
speak
!
’
she
said
,
turning
on
me
with
her
lightning
eyes
.
‘
Be
silent
,
you
!
Look
at
me
,
I
say
,
proud
mother
of
a
proud
,
false
son
!
Moan
for
your
nurture
of
him
,
moan
for
your
corruption
of
him
,
moan
for
your
loss
of
him
,
moan
for
mine
!
’
She
clenched
her
hand
,
and
trembled
through
her
spare
,
worn
figure
,
as
if
her
passion
were
killing
her
by
inches
.
‘
You
,
resent
his
self
-
will
!
’
she
exclaimed
.
‘
You
,
injured
by
his
haughty
temper
!
You
,
who
opposed
to
both
,
when
your
hair
was
grey
,
the
qualities
which
made
both
when
you
gave
him
birth
!
YOU
,
who
from
his
cradle
reared
him
to
be
what
he
was
,
and
stunted
what
he
should
have
been
!
Are
you
rewarded
,
now
,
for
your
years
of
trouble
?
’
‘
Oh
,
Miss
Dartle
,
shame
!
Oh
cruel
!
’
‘
I
tell
you
,
’
she
returned
,
‘
I
WILL
speak
to
her
.
No
power
on
earth
should
stop
me
,
while
I
was
standing
here
!
Have
I
been
silent
all
these
years
,
and
shall
I
not
speak
now
?
I
loved
him
better
than
you
ever
loved
him
!
’
turning
on
her
fiercely
.
‘
I
could
have
loved
him
,
and
asked
no
return
.
If
I
had
been
his
wife
,
I
could
have
been
the
slave
of
his
caprices
for
a
word
of
love
a
year
.
I
should
have
been
.
Who
knows
it
better
than
I
?
You
were
exacting
,
proud
,
punctilious
,
selfish
.
My
love
would
have
been
devoted
—
would
have
trod
your
paltry
whimpering
under
foot
!
’
