Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           Willyouhaveitnow?’

           Ithankedhimandsaid,‘Yes.’Uponwhichhepoureditoutofajugintoalargetumbler,andhelditupagainstthelight,andmadeitlookbeautiful.

           ‘Myeye!’hesaid.‘Itseemsagooddeal,don’tit?’

           ‘Itdoesseemagooddeal,’Iansweredwithasmile.Foritwasquitedelightfultome,tofindhimsopleasant.Hewasatwinkling-eyed,pimple-facedman,withhishairstandinguprightalloverhishead;andashestoodwithonearma-kimbo,holdinguptheglasstothelightwiththeotherhand,helookedquitefriendly.

           ‘Therewasagentlemanhere,yesterday,’hesaid‘astoutgentleman,bythenameofTopsawyerperhapsyouknowhim?’

           ‘No,’Isaid,‘Idon’tthink

           ‘Inbreechesandgaiters,broad-brimmedhat,greycoat,speckledchoker,’saidthewaiter.

           ‘No,’Isaidbashfully,‘Ihaven’tthepleasure

           ‘Hecameinhere,’saidthewaiter,lookingatthelightthroughthetumbler,‘orderedaglassofthisaleWOULDorderitItoldhimnotdrankit,andfelldead.Itwastoooldforhim.Itoughtn’ttobedrawn;that’sthefact.’

           Iwasverymuchshockedtohearofthismelancholyaccident,andsaidIthoughtIhadbetterhavesomewater.

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