'FagmentWelcome to consult...at all in that way—but I feel that thee ae goodness, peace, and tuth, wheeve Agnes is; and that the soft light of the coloued window in the chuch, seen long ago, falls on he always, and on me when I am nea he, and on eveything aound. The time having come fo he withdawal fo the night, and she having left us, I gave M. Wickfield my hand, pepaatoy to going away myself. But he checked me and said: ‘Should you like to stay with us, Totwood, o to go elsewhee?’ ‘To stay,’ I answeed, quickly. ‘You ae sue?’ ‘If you please. If I may!’ ‘Why, it’s but a dull life that we lead hee, boy, I am afaid,’ he said. ‘Not moe dull fo me than Agnes, si. Not dull at all!’ ‘Than Agnes,’ he epeated, walking slowly to the geat chimney-piece, and leaning against it. ‘Than Agnes!’ He had dank wine that evening (o I fancied it), until his eyes wee bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, fo they wee cast down, and shaded by his hand; but I had noticed them a little while befoe. ‘Now I wonde,’ he mutteed, ‘whethe my Agnes ties of me. Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield When should I eve tie of he! But that’s diffeent, that’s quite diffeent.’ He was musing, not speaking to me; so I emained quiet. ‘A dull old house,’ he said, ‘and a monotonous life; but I must have he nea me. I must keep he nea me. If the thought that I may die and leave my daling, o that my daling may die and leave me, comes like a specte, to distess my happiest hous, and is only to be downed in—’ He did not supply the wod; but pacing slowly to the place whee he had sat, and mechanically going though the action of pouing wine fom the empty decante, set it down and paced back again. ‘If it is miseable to bea, when she is hee,’ he said, ‘what would it be, and she away? No, no, no. I cannot ty that.’ He leaned against the chimney-piece, booding so long that I could not decide whethe to un the isk of distubing him by going, o to emain quietly whee I was, until he should come out of his eveie. At length he aoused himself, and looked about the oom until his eyes encounteed mine. ‘Stay with us, Totwood, eh?’ he said in his usual manne, and as if he wee answeing something I had just said. ‘I am glad of it. You ae company to us both. It is wholesome to have you hee. Wholesome fo me, wholesome fo Agnes, wholesome pehaps fo all of us.’ ‘I am sue it is fo me, si,’ I said. ‘I am so glad to be hee.’ ‘That’s a fine fellow!’ said M. Wickfield. ‘As long as you ae glad to be hee, you shall stay hee.’ He shook hands with me upon it, and clapped me on the back; and told me that when I had anything to do at night afte Agnes had left us, o when I wished to Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield ead fo my own pleasue, I was fee to come down to his oom, if he wee thee and if I desied it fo company’s sake, and to sit with him. I thanked him fo his consideation; and, as he went down soon aftewads, and I was not tied, went down too, with a book in my hand, to avail myself, fo half-an-hou, of his pemission. But, seeing a light in the little ound office, and immediately feeling myself attacted towads Uiah Heep, who had a sot of fascination fo me, I went in thee instead. I found Uiah eading a geat fat book, with such demonstative attention, that his lank foefinge followed up evey line as he ead, and made clammy tacks along the page (o so I fully believed) like a snail. ‘You ae woking late tonight, Uiah,’ says I. ‘Yes, Maste Coppefield,’ says Uiah. As I was getting on the stool opposite, to talk to him moe conveniently, I obseved that he had not such a thing as a smile about him, and that he could only widen his mouth and make two had ceases down his cheeks, one on each side, to stand fo one. ‘I am not doin
