Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Involved in Mystery

           

           ‘Youshallmakeusaglassofyourownpunch,Mr.Micawber,’saidI,‘andforgetwhateveryouhaveonyourmind,inpleasanterreminiscences.’

           ‘Or,ifconfidinganythingtofriendswillbemorelikelytorelieveyou,youshallimpartittous,Mr.Micawber,’saidTraddles,prudently.

           ‘Gentlemen,’returnedMr.Micawber,‘dowithmeasyouwill!Iamastrawuponthesurfaceofthedeep,andamtossedinalldirectionsbytheelephantsIbegyourpardon;Ishouldhavesaidtheelements.’

           Wewalkedon,arm-in-arm,again;foundthecoachintheactofstarting;andarrivedatHighgatewithoutencounteringanydifficultiesbytheway.IwasveryuneasyandveryuncertaininmymindwhattosayordoforthebestsowasTraddles,evidently.Mr.Micawberwasforthemostpartplungedintodeepgloom.Heoccasionallymadeanattempttosmartenhimself,andhumthefag-endofatune;buthisrelapsesintoprofoundmelancholywereonlymadethemoreimpressivebythemockeryofahatexceedinglyononeside,andashirt-collarpulleduptohiseyes.

           Wewenttomyaunt’shouseratherthantomine,becauseofDora’snotbeingwell.Myauntpresentedherselfonbeingsentfor,andwelcomedMr.Micawberwithgraciouscordiality.Mr.Micawberkissedherhand,retiredtothewindow,andpullingouthispocket-handkerchief,hadamentalwrestlewithhimself.

           Mr.Dickwasathome.

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