Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           IhadmyownoldmugwithDavidonit,andmyownoldlittleknifeandforkthatwouldn’tcut.

           Whilewewereattable,IthoughtitafavourableoccasiontotellPeggottyaboutMr.Barkis,who,beforeIhadfinishedwhatIhadtotellher,begantolaugh,andthrowherapronoverherface.

           ‘Peggotty,’saidmymother.‘What’sthematter?’

           Peggottyonlylaughedthemore,andheldheraprontightoverherfacewhenmymothertriedtopullitaway,andsatasifherheadwereinabag.

           ‘Whatareyoudoing,youstupidcreature?’saidmymother,laughing.

           ‘Oh,drattheman!’criedPeggotty.‘Hewantstomarryme.’

           ‘Itwouldbeaverygoodmatchforyou;wouldn’tit?’saidmymother.

           ‘Oh!Idon’tknow,’saidPeggotty.‘Don’taskme.Iwouldn’thavehimifhewasmadeofgold.NorIwouldn’thaveanybody.’

           ‘Then,whydon’tyoutellhimso,youridiculousthing?’saidmymother.

           ‘Tellhimso,’retortedPeggotty,lookingoutofherapron.‘Hehasneversaidawordtomeaboutit.Heknowsbetter.Ifhewastomakesoboldassayawordtome,Ishouldslaphisface.’

           HerownwasasredaseverIsawit,oranyotherface,Ithink;butsheonlycovereditagain,forafewmomentsatatime,whenshewastakenwithaviolentfitoflaughter;andaftertwoorthreeofthoseattacks,wentonwithherdinner.

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