Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           

           Againhemadeuphismouthtowhistle,andagainhedidn’twhistle,butsatlookingatthehorse’sears.

           ‘Soshemakes,’saidMr.Barkis,afteralongintervalofreflection,‘alltheappleparsties,anddoosallthecooking,doshe?’

           Irepliedthatsuchwasthefact.

           ‘Well.I’lltellyouwhat,’saidMr.Barkis.‘P’rapsyoumightbewritin’toher?’

           ‘Ishallcertainlywritetoher,’Irejoined.

           ‘Ah!’hesaid,slowlyturninghiseyestowardsme.‘Well!Ifyouwaswritin’toher,p’rapsyou’drecollecttosaythatBarkiswaswillin’;wouldyou?’

           ‘ThatBarkisiswilling,’Irepeated,innocently.‘Isthatallthemessage?’

           ‘Ye-es,’hesaid,considering.‘Ye-es.Barkisiswillin’.’

           ‘ButyouwillbeatBlunderstoneagaintomorrow,Mr.Barkis,’Isaid,falteringalittleattheideaofmybeingfarawayfromitthen,andcouldgiveyourownmessagesomuchbetter.’

           Asherepudiatedthissuggestion,however,withajerkofhishead,andoncemoreconfirmedhispreviousrequestbysaying,withprofoundgravity,‘Barkisiswillin’.That’sthemessage,’Ireadilyundertookitstransmission.WhileIwaswaitingforthecoachinthehotelatYarmouththatveryafternoon,Iprocuredasheetofpaperandaninkstand,andwroteanotetoPeggotty,whichranthus:‘MydearPeggotty.Ihavecomeheresafe.Barkisiswilling.

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