Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Predictions

           Notproudinhiswisdom.Humble,humblecondescendingeventopoorDick,whoissimpleandknowsnothing.Ihavesenthisnameup,onascrapofpaper,tothekite,alongthestring,whenithasbeeninthesky,amongthelarks.Thekitehasbeengladtoreceiveit,sir,andtheskyhasbeenbrighterwithit.’

           Idelightedhimbysaying,mostheartily,thattheDoctorwasdeservingofourbestrespectandhighestesteem.

           ‘Andhisbeautifulwifeisastar,’saidMr.Dick.‘Ashiningstar.Ihaveseenhershine,sir.But,’bringinghischairnearer,andlayingonehanduponmyknee‘clouds,sirclouds.’

           Iansweredthesolicitudewhichhisfaceexpressed,byconveyingthesameexpressionintomyown,andshakingmyhead.

           ‘Whatclouds?’saidMr.Dick.

           Helookedsowistfullyintomyface,andwassoanxioustounderstand,thatItookgreatpainstoanswerhimslowlyanddistinctly,asImighthaveenteredonanexplanationtoachild.

           ‘Thereissomeunfortunatedivisionbetweenthem,’Ireplied.‘Someunhappycauseofseparation.Asecret.Itmaybeinseparablefromthediscrepancyintheiryears.Itmayhavegrownupoutofalmostnothing.’

           Mr.Dick,whohadtoldoffeverysentencewithathoughtfulnod,pausedwhenIhaddone,andsatconsidering,withhiseyesuponmyface,andhishanduponmyknee.

           ‘Doctornotangrywithher,Trotwood?’hesaid,aftersometime.

           ‘No.

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