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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 744/820
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With
flashing
eyes
,
she
stamped
upon
the
ground
as
if
she
actually
did
it
.
‘
Look
here
!
’
she
said
,
striking
the
scar
again
,
with
a
relentless
hand
.
‘
When
he
grew
into
the
better
understanding
of
what
he
had
done
,
he
saw
it
,
and
repented
of
it
!
I
could
sing
to
him
,
and
talk
to
him
,
and
show
the
ardour
that
I
felt
in
all
he
did
,
and
attain
with
labour
to
such
knowledge
as
most
interested
him
;
and
I
attracted
him
.
When
he
was
freshest
and
truest
,
he
loved
me
.
Yes
,
he
did
!
Many
a
time
,
when
you
were
put
off
with
a
slight
word
,
he
has
taken
Me
to
his
heart
!
’
She
said
it
with
a
taunting
pride
in
the
midst
of
her
frenzy
—
for
it
was
little
less
—
yet
with
an
eager
remembrance
of
it
,
in
which
the
smouldering
embers
of
a
gentler
feeling
kindled
for
the
moment
.
‘
I
descended
—
as
I
might
have
known
I
should
,
but
that
he
fascinated
me
with
his
boyish
courtship
—
into
a
doll
,
a
trifle
for
the
occupation
of
an
idle
hour
,
to
be
dropped
,
and
taken
up
,
and
trifled
with
,
as
the
inconstant
humour
took
him
.
When
he
grew
weary
,
I
grew
weary
.
As
his
fancy
died
out
,
I
would
no
more
have
tried
to
strengthen
any
power
I
had
,
than
I
would
have
married
him
on
his
being
forced
to
take
me
for
his
wife
.
We
fell
away
from
one
another
without
a
word
.
Perhaps
you
saw
it
,
and
were
not
sorry
.
Since
then
,
I
have
been
a
mere
disfigured
piece
of
furniture
between
you
both
;
having
no
eyes
,
no
ears
,
no
feelings
,
no
remembrances
.
Moan
?
Moan
for
what
you
made
him
;
not
for
your
love
.
I
tell
you
that
the
time
was
,
when
I
loved
him
better
than
you
ever
did
!
’
She
stood
with
her
bright
angry
eyes
confronting
the
wide
stare
,
and
the
set
face
;
and
softened
no
more
,
when
the
moaning
was
repeated
,
than
if
the
face
had
been
a
picture
.
‘
Miss
Dartle
,
’
said
I
,
‘
if
you
can
be
so
obdurate
as
not
to
feel
for
this
afflicted
mother
—
—
’
‘
Who
feels
for
me
?
’
she
sharply
retorted
.
‘
She
has
sown
this
.
Let
her
moan
for
the
harvest
that
she
reaps
today
!
’
‘
And
if
his
faults
—
—
’
I
began
.
