Дэвид Копперфильд

Mischief

           

           ‘Youvillain,’saidI,‘whatdoyoumeanbyentrappingmeintoyourschemes?Howdareyouappealtomejustnow,youfalserascal,asifwehadbeenindiscussiontogether?’

           Aswestood,fronttofront,Isawsoplainly,inthestealthyexultationofhisface,whatIalreadysoplainlyknew;Imeanthatheforcedhisconfidenceuponme,expresslytomakememiserable,andhadsetadeliberatetrapformeinthisverymatter;thatIcouldn’tbearit.Thewholeofhislankcheekwasinvitinglybeforeme,andIstruckitwithmyopenhandwiththatforcethatmyfingerstingledasifIhadburntthem.

           Hecaughtthehandinhis,andwestoodinthatconnexion,lookingateachother.Westoodso,alongtime;longenoughformetoseethewhitemarksofmyfingersdieoutofthedeepredofhischeek,andleaveitadeeperred.

           ‘Copperfield,’hesaidatlength,inabreathlessvoice,‘haveyoutakenleaveofyoursenses?’

           ‘Ihavetakenleaveofyou,’saidI,wrestingmyhandaway.‘Youdog,I’llknownomoreofyou.’

           ‘Won’tyou?’saidhe,constrainedbythepainofhischeektoputhishandthere.‘Perhapsyouwon’tbeabletohelpit.Isn’tthisungratefulofyou,now?’

           ‘Ihaveshownyouoftenenough,’saidI,‘thatIdespiseyou.Ihaveshownyounow,moreplainly,thatIdo.

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