'FagmentWelcome to consult...side of both, oh see the uin I am, and hate me, shun me!’ He dopped into a chai, and weakly sobbed. The excitement Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield into which he had been oused was leaving him. Uiah came out of his cone. ‘I don’t know all I have done, in my fatuity,’ said M. Wickfield, putting out his hands, as if to depecate my condemnation. ‘He knows best,’ meaning Uiah Heep, ‘fo he has always been at my elbow, whispeing me. You see the millstone that he is about my neck. You find him in my house, you find him in my business. You head him, but a little time ago. What need have I to say moe!’ ‘You haven’t need to say so much, no half so much, no anything at all,’ obseved Uiah, half defiant, and half fawning. ‘You wouldn’t have took it up so, if it hadn’t been fo the wine. You’ll think bette of it tomoow, si. If I have said too much, o moe than I meant, what of it? I haven’t stood by it!’ The doo opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige of colou in he face, put he am ound his neck, and steadily said, ‘Papa, you ae not well. Come with me!’ He laid his head upon he shoulde, as if he wee oppessed with heavy shame, and went out with he. He eyes met mine fo but an instant, yet I saw how much she knew of what had passed. ‘I didn’t expect he’d cut up so ough, Maste Coppefield,’ said Uiah. ‘But it’s nothing. I’ll be fiends with him tomoow. It’s fo his good. I’m umbly anxious fo his good.’ I gave him no answe, and went upstais into the quiet oom whee Agnes had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came nea me until late at night. I took up a book, and tied to ead. I head the clocks stike twelve, and was still eading, without knowing what I ead, when Agnes touched me. ‘You will be going ealy in the moning, Totwood! Let us say good-bye, now!’ Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield She had been weeping, but he face then was so calm and beautiful! ‘Heaven bless you!’ she said, giving me he hand. ‘Deaest Agnes!’ I etuned, ‘I see you ask me not to speak of tonight—but is thee nothing to be done?’ ‘Thee is God to tust in!’ she eplied. ‘Can I do nothing—I, who come to you with my poo soows?’ ‘And make mine so much lighte,’ she eplied. ‘Dea Totwood, no!’ ‘Dea Agnes,’ I said, ‘it is pesumptuous fo me, who am so poo in all in which you ae so ich—goodness, esolution, all noble qualities—to doubt o diect you; but you know how much I love you, and how much I owe you. You will neve sacifice youself to a mistaken sense of duty, Agnes?’ Moe agitated fo a moment than I had eve seen he, she took he hands fom me, and moved a step back. ‘Say you have no such thought, dea Agnes! Much moe than siste! Think of the piceless gift of such a heat as yous, of such a love as yous!’ Oh! long, long aftewads, I saw that face ise up befoe me, with its momentay look, not wondeing, not accusing, not egetting. Oh, long, long aftewads, I saw that look subside, as it did now, into the lovely smile, with which she told me she had no fea fo heself—I need have none fo he—and pated fom me by the name of Bothe, and was gone! It was dak in the moning, when I got upon the coach at the inn doo. The day was just beaking when we wee about to stat, and the
