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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 784/820
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‘
I
hope
not
.
’
‘
Then
I
have
no
such
intention
,
Agnes
.
’
‘
I
think
you
ought
not
,
Trotwood
,
since
you
ask
me
,
’
she
said
,
mildly
.
‘
Your
growing
reputation
and
success
enlarge
your
power
of
doing
good
;
and
if
I
could
spare
my
brother
,
’
with
her
eyes
upon
me
,
‘
perhaps
the
time
could
not
.
’
‘
What
I
am
,
you
have
made
me
,
Agnes
.
You
should
know
best
.
’
‘
I
made
you
,
Trotwood
?
’
‘
Yes
!
Agnes
,
my
dear
girl
!
’
I
said
,
bending
over
her
.
‘
I
tried
to
tell
you
,
when
we
met
today
,
something
that
has
been
in
my
thoughts
since
Dora
died
.
You
remember
,
when
you
came
down
to
me
in
our
little
room
—
pointing
upward
,
Agnes
?
’
‘
Oh
,
Trotwood
!
’
she
returned
,
her
eyes
filled
with
tears
.
‘
So
loving
,
so
confiding
,
and
so
young
!
Can
I
ever
forget
?
’
‘
As
you
were
then
,
my
sister
,
I
have
often
thought
since
,
you
have
ever
been
to
me
.
Ever
pointing
upward
,
Agnes
;
ever
leading
me
to
something
better
;
ever
directing
me
to
higher
things
!
’
She
only
shook
her
head
;
through
her
tears
I
saw
the
same
sad
quiet
smile
.
