Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Predictions

           Devotedtoher.’

           ‘Then,Ihavegotit,boy!’saidMr.Dick.

           Thesuddenexultationwithwhichheslappedmeontheknee,andleanedbackinhischair,withhiseyebrowsliftedupashighashecouldpossiblyliftthem,mademethinkhimfartheroutofhiswitsthanever.Hebecameassuddenlygraveagain,andleaningforwardasbefore,saidfirstrespectfullytakingouthispocket-handkerchief,asifitreallydidrepresentmyaunt:

           ‘Mostwonderfulwomanintheworld,Trotwood.Whyhasshedonenothingtosetthingsright?’

           ‘Toodelicateanddifficultasubjectforsuchinterference,’Ireplied.

           ‘Finescholar,’saidMr.Dick,touchingmewithhisfinger.‘WhyhasHEdonenothing?’

           ‘Forthesamereason,’Ireturned.

           ‘Then,Ihavegotit,boy!’saidMr.Dick.Andhestoodupbeforeme,moreexultinglythanbefore,noddinghishead,andstrikinghimselfrepeatedlyuponthebreast,untilonemighthavesupposedthathehadnearlynoddedandstruckallthebreathoutofhisbody.

           ‘Apoorfellowwithacraze,sir,’saidMr.Dick,‘asimpleton,aweak-mindedpersonpresentcompany,youknow!’strikinghimselfagain,‘maydowhatwonderfulpeoplemaynotdo.I’llbringthemtogether,boy.I’lltry.They’llnotblameme.They’llnotobjecttome.They’llnotmindwhatIdo,ifit’swrong.I’monlyMr.Dick.

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