Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           

           ‘Whyyousee,’saidthewaiter,stilllookingatthelightthroughthetumbler,withoneofhiseyesshutup,‘ourpeopledon’tlikethingsbeingorderedandleft.Itoffends‘em.ButI’lldrinkit,ifyoulike.I’musedtoit,anduseiseverything.Idon’tthinkit’llhurtme,ifIthrowmyheadback,andtakeitoffquick.ShallI?’

           Irepliedthathewouldmuchobligemebydrinkingit,ifhethoughthecoulddoitsafely,butbynomeansotherwise.Whenhedidthrowhisheadback,andtakeitoffquick,Ihadahorriblefear,Iconfess,ofseeinghimmeetthefateofthelamentedMr.Topsawyer,andfalllifelessonthecarpet.Butitdidn’thurthim.Onthecontrary,Ithoughtheseemedthefresherforit.

           ‘Whathavewegothere?’hesaid,puttingaforkintomydish.‘Notchops?’

           ‘Chops,’Isaid.

           ‘Lordblessmysoul!’heexclaimed,‘Ididn’tknowtheywerechops.Why,achop’stheverythingtotakeoffthebadeffectsofthatbeer!Ain’titlucky?’

           Sohetookachopbytheboneinonehand,andapotatointheother,andateawaywithaverygoodappetite,tomyextremesatisfaction.Heafterwardstookanotherchop,andanotherpotato;andafterthat,anotherchopandanotherpotato.Whenwehaddone,hebroughtmeapudding,andhavingsetitbeforeme,seemedtoruminate,andtobecomeabsentinhismindforsomemoments.

           ‘How’sthepie?’hesaid,rousinghimself.

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