Дэвид Копперфильд

I Assist at an Explosion

           Micawber,gravely,‘IhopeIseeyouwell?’

           ‘IsMissWickfieldathome?’saidI.

           ‘Mr.Wickfieldisunwellinbed,sir,ofarheumaticfever,’hereturned;‘butMissWickfield,Ihavenodoubt,willbehappytoseeoldfriends.Willyouwalkin,sir?’

           Heprecededustothedining-room—thefirstroomIhadenteredinthathouse—andflingingopenthedoorofMr.Wickfield’sformeroffice,said,inasonorousvoice:

           ‘MissTrotwood,Mr.DavidCopperfield,Mr.ThomasTraddles,andMr.Dixon!’

           IhadnotseenUriahHeepsincethetimeoftheblow.Ourvisitastonishedhim,evidently;nottheless,Idaresay,becauseitastonishedourselves.Hedidnotgatherhiseyebrowstogether,forhehadnoneworthmentioning;buthefrownedtothatdegreethathealmostclosedhissmalleyes,whilethehurriedraisingofhisgrislyhandtohischinbetrayedsometrepidationorsurprise.Thiswasonlywhenwewereintheactofenteringhisroom,andwhenIcaughtaglanceathimovermyaunt’sshoulder.Amomentafterwards,hewasasfawningandashumbleasever.

           ‘Well,Iamsure,’hesaid.‘Thisisindeedanunexpectedpleasure!Tohave,asImaysay,allfriendsroundSt.Paul’satonce,isatreatunlookedfor!Mr.Copperfield,IhopeIseeyouwell,and—ifImayumblyexpressmyselfsofriendlytowardsthemasiseveryourfriends,whetherornot.Mrs.Copperfield,sir,Ihopeshe’sgettingon.

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