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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 800/820
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‘
Are
you
confirmed
in
your
impression
?
’
I
inquired
.
‘
I
think
I
am
,
Trot
.
’
She
looked
so
steadfastly
at
me
:
with
a
kind
of
doubt
,
or
pity
,
or
suspense
in
her
affection
:
that
I
summoned
the
stronger
determination
to
show
her
a
perfectly
cheerful
face
.
‘
And
what
is
more
,
Trot
—
—
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
Yes
!
’
‘
I
think
Agnes
is
going
to
be
married
.
’
‘
God
bless
her
!
’
said
I
,
cheerfully
.
‘
God
bless
her
!
’
said
my
aunt
,
‘
and
her
husband
too
!
’
I
echoed
it
,
parted
from
my
aunt
,
and
went
lightly
downstairs
,
mounted
,
and
rode
away
.
There
was
greater
reason
than
before
to
do
what
I
had
resolved
to
do
.
How
well
I
recollect
the
wintry
ride
!
The
frozen
particles
of
ice
,
brushed
from
the
blades
of
grass
by
the
wind
,
and
borne
across
my
face
;
the
hard
clatter
of
the
horse
’
s
hoofs
,
beating
a
tune
upon
the
ground
;
the
stiff
-
tilled
soil
;
the
snowdrift
,
lightly
eddying
in
the
chalk
-
pit
as
the
breeze
ruffled
it
;
the
smoking
team
with
the
waggon
of
old
hay
,
stopping
to
breathe
on
the
hill
-
top
,
and
shaking
their
bells
musically
;
the
whitened
slopes
and
sweeps
of
Down
-
land
lying
against
the
dark
sky
,
as
if
they
were
drawn
on
a
huge
slate
!
