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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 782/820
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When
I
returned
,
Mr
.
Wickfield
had
come
home
,
from
a
garden
he
had
,
a
couple
of
miles
or
so
out
of
town
,
where
he
now
employed
himself
almost
every
day
.
I
found
him
as
my
aunt
had
described
him
.
We
sat
down
to
dinner
,
with
some
half
-
dozen
little
girls
;
and
he
seemed
but
the
shadow
of
his
handsome
picture
on
the
wall
.
The
tranquillity
and
peace
belonging
,
of
old
,
to
that
quiet
ground
in
my
memory
,
pervaded
it
again
.
When
dinner
was
done
,
Mr
.
Wickfield
taking
no
wine
,
and
I
desiring
none
,
we
went
up
-
stairs
;
where
Agnes
and
her
little
charges
sang
and
played
,
and
worked
.
After
tea
the
children
left
us
;
and
we
three
sat
together
,
talking
of
the
bygone
days
.
‘
My
part
in
them
,
’
said
Mr
.
Wickfield
,
shaking
his
white
head
,
‘
has
much
matter
for
regret
—
for
deep
regret
,
and
deep
contrition
,
Trotwood
,
you
well
know
.
But
I
would
not
cancel
it
,
if
it
were
in
my
power
.
’
I
could
readily
believe
that
,
looking
at
the
face
beside
him
.
‘
I
should
cancel
with
it
,
’
he
pursued
,
‘
such
patience
and
devotion
,
such
fidelity
,
such
a
child
’
s
love
,
as
I
must
not
forget
,
no
!
even
to
forget
myself
.
’
‘
I
understand
you
,
sir
,
’
I
softly
said
.
‘
I
hold
it
—
I
have
always
held
it
—
in
veneration
.
’
‘
But
no
one
knows
,
not
even
you
,
’
he
returned
,
‘
how
much
she
has
done
,
how
much
she
has
undergone
,
how
hard
she
has
striven
.
Dear
Agnes
!
’
She
had
put
her
hand
entreatingly
on
his
arm
,
to
stop
him
;
and
was
very
,
very
pale
.
‘
Well
,
well
!
’
he
said
with
a
sigh
,
dismissing
,
as
I
then
saw
,
some
trial
she
had
borne
,
or
was
yet
to
bear
,
in
connexion
with
what
my
aunt
had
told
me
.
‘
Well
!
I
have
never
told
you
,
Trotwood
,
of
her
mother
.
Has
anyone
?
’
