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|The shadow within my breast
Written by David Copperfield
(8/15/2013 9:17 a.m.)
I have been married to my pretty Dora for two years now. I was about 18 when she first fell into my way. All was over in a moment; there was no pausing upon the brink, no looking back– I was swallowed up into an abyss of love–I had fulfilled my destiny— I had fallen into captivity, a slave before I had even said one word to this ethereal divinity!
A few obstacles came in our way before I was so honoured as to marry her – such as her father mysteriously dying after he found me out; Dora’s fainting fit when I passionately announced that I had become a “beggar”; my not yet being of age, etc. But through it all she has been as faithful and loving to her ‘Doady’ as I never could deserve.
We are not quite as rich as I could wish for the sake of my darling. She is artless and inexperienced and can’t manage to keep a house by herself. She tries her best, and I wouldn’t for the world mention to her that the salmon she bought to surprise me last week was much beyond our means, or that all the servants and shopkeepers seem to cheat us, or that her favourite spaniel Jip really shouldn’t be allowed to wander on the table at dinner time. The dear, tender-hearted girl would start crying, frightened, and call herself a ‘goose,’ and I couldn’t bear that.
She often asks me if it would have been better if she had stayed with Agnes for a year before getting married, so she could learn how to be ‘clever.’
Agnes is the Good Angel of my life, my best friend since childhood. She was the partner in my cares and thoughts, and sustained me with her strong, beautiful character. Even now when I and my sweetheart are with her our love seems perfected with her good influence. She is still single and I can’t think of anyone good enough for her.
But Agnes is busy these days taking care of her elderly father, and strangely hasn’t visited since she was our bridesmaid.
I have tried forming Dora’s mind myself, but found myself always playing spider to her fly, disconcerting both of us. I now have learnt to love her as she naturally is, remembering that she is my ‘child-wife,’ as she likes to be called.
Sometimes, however, I feel an unhappy loss or want of something in my heart, something maybe from my childish dreams which –alas!—as all men eventually find out, is incapable of realisation. And all the time I can hear the echo of my aunt’s voice in my head; “Blind! Blind! Blind!”
I can't think why.
I apologise for this lengthy meandering History, which I never, on any account, wish to be made public, and humbly request your Ladyship’s advice.
David Trotwood Copperfield, Esq
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