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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 799/820
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‘
I
hope
your
horse
may
think
so
too
,
’
said
my
aunt
;
‘
but
at
present
he
is
holding
down
his
head
and
his
ears
,
standing
before
the
door
there
,
as
if
he
thought
his
stable
preferable
.
’
My
aunt
,
I
may
observe
,
allowed
my
horse
on
the
forbidden
ground
,
but
had
not
at
all
relented
towards
the
donkeys
.
‘
He
will
be
fresh
enough
,
presently
!
’
said
I
.
‘
The
ride
will
do
his
master
good
,
at
all
events
,
’
observed
my
aunt
,
glancing
at
the
papers
on
my
table
.
‘
Ah
,
child
,
you
pass
a
good
many
hours
here
!
I
never
thought
,
when
I
used
to
read
books
,
what
work
it
was
to
write
them
.
’
‘
It
’
s
work
enough
to
read
them
,
sometimes
,
’
I
returned
.
‘
As
to
the
writing
,
it
has
its
own
charms
,
aunt
.
’
‘
Ah
!
I
see
!
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
Ambition
,
love
of
approbation
,
sympathy
,
and
much
more
,
I
suppose
?
Well
:
go
along
with
you
!
’
‘
Do
you
know
anything
more
,
’
said
I
,
standing
composedly
before
her
-
she
had
patted
me
on
the
shoulder
,
and
sat
down
in
my
chair
—
‘
of
that
attachment
of
Agnes
?
’
She
looked
up
in
my
face
a
little
while
,
before
replying
:
‘
I
think
I
do
,
Trot
.
’
