Дэвид Копперфильд

Domestic

           ‘Hemusthaveapieceofflannelinhishousethiswinter,andIshouldn’twonderifhecameoutquitefreshagain,withtheflowersinthespring.Blessthelittledog!’exclaimedmyaunt,‘ifhehadasmanylivesasacat,andwasonthepointoflosing‘emall,he’dbarkatmewithhislastbreath,Ibelieve!’

           Dorahadhelpedhimuponthesofa;wherehereallywasdefyingmyaunttosuchafuriousextent,thathecouldn’tkeepstraight,butbarkedhimselfsideways.Themoremyauntlookedathim,themorehereproachedher;forshehadlatelytakentospectacles,andforsomeinscrutablereasonheconsideredtheglassespersonal.

           Doramadehimliedownbyher,withagooddealofpersuasion;andwhenhewasquiet,drewoneofhislongearsthroughandthroughherhand,repeatingthoughtfully,‘EvenlittleJip!Oh,poorfellow!’

           ‘Hislungsaregoodenough,’saidmyaunt,gaily,‘andhisdislikesarenotatallfeeble.Hehasagoodmanyyearsbeforehim,nodoubt.Butifyouwantadogtoracewith,LittleBlossom,hehaslivedtoowellforthat,andI’llgiveyouone.’

           ‘Thankyou,aunt,’saidDora,faintly.‘Butdon’t,please!’

           ‘No?’saidmyaunt,takingoffherspectacles.

           ‘Icouldn’thaveanyotherdogbutJip,’saidDora.

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