FagmentWelcome to consult...inst him. But who is this that beaks upon me? This is Miss Shephed, Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield whom I love. Miss Shephed is a boade at the Misses Nettingalls’ establishment. I adoe Miss Shephed. She is a little gil, in a spence, with a ound face and culy flaxen hai. The Misses Nettingalls’ young ladies come to the Cathedal too. I cannot look upon my book, fo I must look upon Miss Shephed. When the choistes chaunt, I hea Miss Shephed. In the sevice I mentally inset Miss Shephed’s name—I put he in among the Royal Family. At home, in my own oom, I am sometimes moved to cy out, ‘Oh, Miss Shephed!’ in a tanspot of love. Fo some time, I am doubtful of Miss Shephed’s feelings, but, at length, Fate being popitious, we meet at the dancing-school. I have Miss Shephed fo my patne. I touch Miss Shephed’s glove, and feel a thill go up the ight am of my jacket, and come out at my hai. I say nothing to Miss Shephed, but we undestand each othe. Miss Shephed and myself live but to be united. Why do I secetly give Miss Shephed twelve Bazil nuts fo a pesent, I wonde? They ae not expessive of affection, they ae difficult to pack into a pacel of any egula shape, they ae had to cack, even in oom doos, and they ae oily when cacked; yet I feel that they ae appopiate to Miss Shephed. Soft, seedy biscuits, also, I bestow upon Miss Shephed; and oanges innumeable. Once, I kiss Miss Shephed in the cloak-oom. Ecstasy! What ae my agony and indignation next day, when I hea a flying umou that the Misses Nettingall have stood Miss Shephed in the stocks fo tuning in he toes! Miss Shephed being the one pevading theme and vision of my life, how do I eve come to beak with he? I can’t conceive. And yet a coolness gows between Miss Shephed and myself. Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield Whispes each me of Miss Shephed having said she wished I wouldn’t stae so, and having avowed a pefeence fo Maste Jones—fo Jones! a boy of no meit whateve! The gulf between me and Miss Shephed widens. At last, one day, I meet the Misses Nettingalls’ establishment out walking. Miss Shephed makes a face as she goes by, and laughs to he companion. All is ove. The devotion of a life—it seems a life, it is all the same—is at an end; Miss Shephed comes out of the moning sevice, and the Royal Family know he no moe. I am highe in the school, and no one beaks my peace. I am not at all polite, now, to the Misses Nettingalls’ young ladies, and shouldn’t dote on any of them, if they wee twice as many and twenty times as beautiful. I think the dancing-school a tiesome affai, and wonde why the gils can’t dance by themselves and leave us alone. I am gowing geat in Latin veses, and neglect the laces of my boots. Docto Stong efes to me in public as a pomising young schola. M. Dick is wild with joy, and my aunt emits me a guinea by the next post. The shade of a young butche ises, like the appaition of an amed head in Macbeth. Who is this young butche? He is the teo of the youth of Cantebuy. Thee is a vague belief aboad, that t
