'FagmentWelcome to consult...I have a bette ight to it than any othe man!’ I had my ams ound M. Wickfield, imploing him by eveything that I could think of, oftenest of all by his love fo Agnes, to calm himself a little. He was mad fo the moment; teaing out his hai, beating his head, tying to foce me fom him, Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield and to foce himself fom me, not answeing a wod, not looking at o seeing anyone; blindly stiving fo he knew not what, his face all staing and distoted—a fightful spectacle. I conjued him, incoheently, but in the most impassioned manne, not to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hea me. I besought him to think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to ecollect how Agnes and I had gown up togethe, how I honoued he and loved he, how she was his pide and joy. I tied to bing he idea befoe him in any fom; I even epoached him with not having fimness to spae he the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may have effected something, o his wildness may have spent itself; but by degees he stuggled less, and began to look at me—stangely at fist, then with ecognition in his eyes. At length he said, ‘I know, Totwood! My daling child and you—I know! But look at him!’ He pointed to Uiah, pale and gloweing in a cone, evidently vey much out in his calculations, and taken by supise. ‘Look at my totue,’ he eplied. ‘Befoe him I have step by step abandoned name and eputation, peace and quiet, house and home.’ ‘I have kept you name and eputation fo you, and you peace and quiet, and you house and home too,’ said Uiah, with a sulky, huied, defeated ai of compomise. ‘Don’t be foolish, M. Wickfield. If I have gone a little beyond what you wee pepaed fo, I can go back, I suppose? Thee’s no ham done.’ ‘I looked fo single motives in eveyone,’ said M. Wickfield, and I was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of inteest. But see what he is—oh, see what he is!’ ‘You had bette stop him, Coppefield, if you can,’ cied Uiah, Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield with his long foefinge pointing towads me. ‘He’ll say something pesently—mind you!—he’ll be soy to have said aftewads, and you’ll be soy to have head!’ ‘I’ll say anything!’ cied M. Wickfield, with a despeate ai. ‘Why should I not be in all the wold’s powe if I am in yous?’ ‘Mind! I tell you!’ said Uiah, continuing to wan me. ‘If you don’t stop his mouth, you’e not his fiend! Why shouldn’t you be in all the wold’s powe, M. Wickfield? Because you have got a daughte. You and me know what we know, don’t we? Let sleeping dogs lie—who wants to ouse ’em? I don’t. Can’t you see I am as umble as I can be? I tell you, if I’ve gone too fa, I’m soy. What would you have, si?’ ‘Oh, Totwood, Totwood!’ exclaimed M. Wickfield, winging his hands. ‘What I have come down to be, since I fist saw you in this house! I was on my downwad way then, but the deay, deay oad I have tavesed since! Weak indulgence has uined me. Indulgence in emembance, and indulgence in fogetfulness. My natual gief fo my child’s mothe tuned to disease; my natual love fo my child tuned to disease. I have infected eveything I touched. I have bought misey on what I dealy love, I know—you know! I thought it possible that I could tuly love one ceatue in the wold, and not love the est; I thought it possible that I could tuly moun fo one ceatue gone out of the wold, and not have some pat in the gief of all who mouned. Thus the lessons of my life have been peveted! I have peyed on my own mobid cowad heat, and it has peyed on me. Sodid in my gief, sodid in my love, sodid in my miseable escape fom the dake
