I fall into captivity.
She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know what she was—any thing that no one ever saw, and every thing that every body ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.
“I,” observed a well-remembered voice, when I had bowed and murmured something, “have seen Mr. Copperfield before.”
The speaker was not Dora. No; the confidential friend. Miss Murdstone!
I don’t think I was much astonished. To the best of my judgment, no capacity of astonishment was left in me. There was nothing worth mentioning in the material world, but Dora Spenlow, to be astonished about. I said, “How do you do, Miss Murdstone? I hope you are
well.” She answered, “Very well.” I said, “How is Mr. Murdstone?” She replied, “My brother is robust, I am obliged to you.”
Mr. Spenlow, who, I suppose, had been surprised to see us recognise each other, then put in his word.
“I am glad to find,” he said, “Copperfield, that you and Miss Murdstone are already acquainted.”
“Mr. Copperfield and myself,” said Miss Murdstone, with severe composure, “are connexions. We were once slightly acquainted. It was in his childish days. Circumstances have separated us since. I should not have known him.”
I replied that I should have known her, any where. Which was true enough.