Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Predictions

           

           Butonenight,whenIhadbeenmarriedsomemonths,Mr.Dickputhisheadintotheparlour,whereIwaswritingalone(Dorahavinggoneoutwithmyaunttotaketeawiththetwolittlebirds),andsaid,withasignificantcough:

           ‘Youcouldn’tspeaktomewithoutinconveniencingyourself,Trotwood,Iamafraid?’

           ‘Certainly,Mr.Dick,’saidI;‘comein!’

           ‘Trotwood,’saidMr.Dick,layinghisfingeronthesideofhisnose,afterhehadshakenhandswithme.‘BeforeIsitdown,Iwishtomakeanobservation.Youknowyouraunt?’

           ‘Alittle,’Ireplied.

           ‘Sheisthemostwonderfulwomanintheworld,sir!’

           Afterthedeliveryofthiscommunication,whichheshotoutofhimselfasifhewereloadedwithit,Mr.Dicksatdownwithgreatergravitythanusual,andlookedatme.

           ‘Now,boy,’saidMr.Dick,‘Iamgoingtoputaquestiontoyou.’

           ‘Asmanyasyouplease,’saidI.

           ‘Whatdoyouconsiderme,sir?’askedMr.Dick,foldinghisarms.

           ‘Adearoldfriend,’saidI.‘Thankyou,Trotwood,’returnedMr.Dick,laughing,andreachingacrossinhighgleetoshakehandswithme.‘ButImean,boy,’resuminghisgravity,‘whatdoyouconsidermeinthisrespect?’touchinghisforehead.

           Iwaspuzzledhowtoanswer,buthehelpedmewithaword.

           ‘Weak?’saidMr.Dick.

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