Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Predictions

           

           Itwastwilightwhenwereachedthecottage.Mrs.Strongwasjustcomingoutofthegarden,whereMr.Dickyetlingered,busywithhisknife,helpingthegardenertopointsomestakes.TheDoctorwasengagedwithsomeoneinhisstudy;butthevisitorwouldbegonedirectly,Mrs.Strongsaid,andbeggedustoremainandseehim.Wewentintothedrawing-roomwithher,andsatdownbythedarkeningwindow.Therewasneveranyceremonyaboutthevisitsofsucholdfriendsandneighboursaswewere.

           Wehadnotsatheremanyminutes,whenMrs.Markleham,whousuallycontrivedtobeinafussaboutsomething,camebustlingin,withhernewspaperinherhand,andsaid,outofbreath,‘Mygoodnessgracious,Annie,whydidn’tyoutellmetherewassomeoneintheStudy!’

           ‘Mydearmama,’shequietlyreturned,‘howcouldIknowthatyoudesiredtheinformation?’

           ‘Desiredtheinformation!’saidMrs.Markleham,sinkingonthesofa.‘Ineverhadsuchaturninallmylife!’

           ‘HaveyoubeentotheStudy,then,mama?’askedAnnie.

           ‘BEENtotheStudy,mydear!’shereturnedemphatically.‘IndeedIhave!Icameupontheamiablecreatureifyou’llimaginemyfeelings,MissTrotwoodandDavidintheactofmakinghiswill.’

           Herdaughterlookedroundfromthewindowquickly.

           ‘Intheact,mydearAnnie,’repeatedMrs.

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