Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           

           AsIwentoutoftheoffice,handinhandwiththisnewacquaintance,Istolealookathim.Hewasagaunt,sallowyoungman,withhollowcheeks,andachinalmostasblackasMr.Murdstone’s;buttherethelikenessended,forhiswhiskerswereshavedoff,andhishair,insteadofbeingglossy,wasrustyanddry.Hewasdressedinasuitofblackclotheswhichwereratherrustyanddrytoo,andrathershortinthesleevesandlegs;andhehadawhiteneck-kerchiefon,thatwasnotover-clean.Ididnot,anddonot,supposethatthisneck-kerchiefwasallthelinenhewore,butitwasallheshowedorgaveanyhintof.

           ‘You’rethenewboy?’hesaid.‘Yes,sir,’Isaid.

           IsupposedIwas.Ididn’tknow.

           ‘I’moneofthemastersatSalemHouse,’hesaid.

           Imadehimabowandfeltverymuchoverawed.Iwassoashamedtoalludetoacommonplacethinglikemybox,toascholarandamasteratSalemHouse,thatwehadgonesomelittledistancefromtheyardbeforeIhadthehardihoodtomentionit.Weturnedback,onmyhumblyinsinuatingthatitmightbeusefultomehereafter;andhetoldtheclerkthatthecarrierhadinstructionstocallforitatnoon.

           ‘Ifyouplease,sir,’Isaid,whenwehadaccomplishedaboutthesamedistanceasbefore,‘isitfar?’

           ‘It’sdownbyBlackheath,’hesaid.

           ‘Isthatfar,sir?’Idiffidentlyasked.

           ‘It’sagoodstep,’hesaid.

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