Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Micawber’s Transactions

           Iamcertainofsuccess.Somanypeopleknowmehere,andthinkkindlyofme,thatIamcertain.Don’tmistrustme.Ourwantsarenotmany.IfIrentthedearoldhouse,andkeepaschool,Ishallbeusefulandhappy.’

           Thecalmfervourofhercheerfulvoicebroughtbacksovividly,firstthedearoldhouseitself,andthenmysolitaryhome,thatmyheartwastoofullforspeech.Traddlespretendedforalittlewhiletobebusilylookingamongthepapers.

           ‘Next,MissTrotwood,’saidTraddles,‘thatpropertyofyours.’

           ‘Well,sir,’sighedmyaunt.‘AllIhavegottosayaboutitis,thatifit’sgone,Icanbearit;andifit’snotgone,Ishallbegladtogetitback.’

           ‘Itwasoriginally,Ithink,eightthousandpounds,Consols?’saidTraddles.

           ‘Right!’repliedmyaunt.

           ‘Ican’taccountformorethanfive,’saidTraddles,withanairofperplexity.

           ‘-thousand,doyoumean?’inquiredmyaunt,withuncommoncomposure,‘orpounds?’

           ‘Fivethousandpounds,’saidTraddles.

           ‘Itwasalltherewas,’returnedmyaunt.‘Isoldthree,myself.One,Ipaidforyourarticles,Trot,mydear;andtheothertwoIhavebyme.WhenIlosttherest,Ithoughtitwisetosaynothingaboutthatsum,buttokeepitsecretlyforarainyday.

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