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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 777/820
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‘
Well
?
Hey
?
Any
what
?
’
said
my
aunt
,
sharply
.
‘
Any
lover
,
’
said
I
.
‘
A
score
,
’
cried
my
aunt
,
with
a
kind
of
indignant
pride
.
‘
She
might
have
married
twenty
times
,
my
dear
,
since
you
have
been
gone
!
’
‘
No
doubt
,
’
said
I
.
‘
No
doubt
.
But
has
she
any
lover
who
is
worthy
of
her
?
Agnes
could
care
for
no
other
.
’
My
aunt
sat
musing
for
a
little
while
,
with
her
chin
upon
her
hand
.
Slowly
raising
her
eyes
to
mine
,
she
said
:
‘
I
suspect
she
has
an
attachment
,
Trot
.
’
‘
A
prosperous
one
?
’
said
I
.
‘
Trot
,
’
returned
my
aunt
gravely
,
‘
I
can
’
t
say
.
I
have
no
right
to
tell
you
even
so
much
.
She
has
never
confided
it
to
me
,
but
I
suspect
it
.
’
She
looked
so
attentively
and
anxiously
at
me
(
I
even
saw
her
tremble
)
,
that
I
felt
now
,
more
than
ever
,
that
she
had
followed
my
late
thoughts
.
I
summoned
all
the
resolutions
I
had
made
,
in
all
those
many
days
and
nights
,
and
all
those
many
conflicts
of
my
heart
.
